Repetition
by varietyofwords
Summary: AU Historical. Chuck and Blair. Five years ago, she made a decision to save her reputation. Now she is back, claiming that what occurred will never happen again. "I've told you before – I will not call you by his name."
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** I could spend the next three months researching this story to death in the library. Or, I could write the story as it comes to me and continue to keep this endeavor fun. I'm going with the later so, please, forgive historical inaccuracies.

* * *

Chuck takes her mouth again, lays claim to them until she cannot deny him any longer. Having her is a madness he now needs and craves, and he burns with an addictive ache that only she can alleviate. No matter her denial, no matter the fact they must lurk in the shadows when it comes to them alone like this, their needs and wants converge and become one.

She meets him, meets every press of his lips with an overwhelming craving to taste the recklessness he offers, taste the fiery, all-consuming passion that exists between then. He possesses an advantage no other has ever had – not the knowledge of how she feels pressed against him, but rather a knowledge that allows him he to understand her like no other has ever before. Knowledge that they are both cruel and greedy and selfish and passionate and well-matched in the way they hide their desires, hide their hearts.

It is why even while she meets and matches him, even while he sense the passion rising and building inside her, he can also sense her turmoil, her confusion, her need to understand. Her innate caution holds her back, and she will not let go until she knows where he is headed, until she understands where he wants to lead her.

He could sweep her resistance away, if he wished. She might be able to stand against him the way she has for the other men that have approached her, but she would not be able to stand against his and her passion combined.

He knows her well enough to know that simply telling her his ultimate goal would only to lead to more arguments, to more resistance rather than less. He knows himself well enough to know that he does not have the words to express his ultimate wish, at least not in a way that she cannot misconstrue. So he pulls her closer to him and tries to show her the truth, tries to reveal to her what she is to him.

The engagement of lips and tongues is no longer sufficient, no longer enough to satiate them. He spreads his hands, lets them rove over her back and over the silk covering her skin. He feels her responsive shudder, aches when she sinks against him. Her fingers tighten on his lapel as she fights to hold on to her wits, as she shifts closer with hips and thighs moving into him until his control quakes.

His fingers find what they are searching for. Lifting his head and dragging in a haggard breath, he spins her and draws her backwards until her back is against his chest; her luscious bottom is against his painfully tight groin. He bites back a groan and concentrates on her, on the slide of his hands from her hips to undo the laces of her gown.

She gasps when the bodice of her gown loosens, when the fabric is pushed around her waist until the only thing between her breasts and his hands is the thin muslin of her chemise. His long fingers stroke and caress her through the fabric until she forgets about breathing, until it no longer seems necessary. The sensations he presses upon her ensnare her mind, ensnare her senses.

She feels gentle tugs, feels his fingers press aside the muslin to slide beneath and cup her breast. Skin to skin. The sensitive satin of her breast against the palm of his hand. She shudders with anticipation and wonder, moans as he feathers kisses along the nape of her neck. Pleasure roars through her as he caresses and runs his thumb over her pebbled nipple, causing her to arch and push her breast more firmly into his hand invitingly.

He spins her back around, detaches his lips from her neck before skating them over the upper curve of her breast. His dips his head lower, attaches himself until she gasps and arches against him again. A growl of satisfaction escapes from his lips, and she glances down to watch him minister to her slowly. From beneath his lids, his eyes flash and catch hers. He holds her gaze for just a moment, offers her a wicked grin as he moves to –

"Chuck, are you –"

He straightens, pulls her to him as the door to his study is thrown open. She freezes in his embrace, grows rigid and cold as he commands for the intruding party to leave them in a harsh bite. The noise in her ears roars so loudly that she barely hears the click of the door, barely registers that they are alone again until she feels his fingers tugging on the bodice of her dress. Up or down, she cannot tell.

The hands previously tangled in his hair push him away with a stunning amount of force; push him away until he stumbles back from her two paces. She yanks her gown up without his assistance, clutches it to her so as to hide herself away from him. He moves forward, tries to assist her with the laces. For a moment, she acquiesces to his help until the look on his face registers.

"I know that look," she hisses. "It's the look you get when your plan falls into place."

She moves away from him again, bats away his hands in the process. Her features harden as her eyes drill into him. She shakes her head in disgust, steps backwards when he moves to follow her.

"You ruined me on purpose. You did this for your own enjoyment and didn't care what it would do to me, which is exactly why you and I can never work."

"Wait," he breathes as his eyes widen in surprise at her remarks. "Slow down."

"You make me sick," she spats as she presses her coffered hair to assure it has not fallen out in their activities. "This thing between us? It's over. For good."

"Wait, Blair, I didn't mean –"

He reaches out, curls his fingers about her arm to prevent her from leaving. She rips herself away from him, moves towards the door, and barks out her final order as she wrenches open the door.

"Don't talk to me!"

He watches her leave in disbelief, watches the way she sweeps out of the room with the swish of her gown and without a backwards glance even as he calls her name. He takes a haggard breath, tries to ascertain exactly what has happened when the closed door reopens. His shoulders sag when he sees that she has not returned to him before his features harden. He advances on the intruder until he is mere inches from the blonde's face.

"What you saw," he hisses, "never happened."

"Chuck," his best friend breathes out in surprise. The murderous glare on Chuck's face, however, causes him to swallow back his protests. "Saw what?"

"Good," Chuck replies. He adjusts his clothes, smoothing out the lapels of his coat and his cravat before stomping out the door in the direction he thinks Miss Blair Waldorf has fled.

* * *

He shifts anxiously in the carriage, causes the well-sprung vehicle to quake with his movements. He checks the time against the watch in his pocket, calls out to the driver of his carriage in an anxious demand, and scowls with Arthur informs him that proper calling hours do not begin for another five minutes.

He spent last night looking for her, only to overhear from unhappy suitors that Miss Waldorf and Lady van der Woodsen retired to Waldorf House for the evening. Half tempted to drive over there that night, bang on the door of her home until she agreed to speak with him, Chuck had only been dissuaded by Arthur, who reminded him that such an action would not further his suit with the esteemed young lady. And so he spent the night tossing restless in his bed, trying to figure out how he was going to correct the misinformation in her mind.

Deciding he has had enough, he ignores the advice of his most trusted servant and ambles out of the carriage. He knocks on the door, waits with baited breath for entry, and raises an eyebrow in surprise when the housekeeper rather than the butler greets him.

The older woman hesitates over allowing him entry, only agrees when it becomes apparent that he will either wait on the steps or wait in the drawing room. She tells him to wait in the foyer, informs him that she will announce him to the young lady of the house.

"Ma'am," the housekeeper announces, "a Mister Char—"

He cuts her off, far too anxious to wait, and strolls into the drawing room. His eyes land first on the old butler hovering in the corner of the room, move until they find her seated on the settee. Her spine – already ramrod straight – stiffens as she meets his gaze, and a slight flush rises up her neck to settle in her cheeks. He smirks wickedly, knowingly, and begins to advance towards her.

"Bla—"

This time it is he who is cut off, silenced by the jovial greeting of the man he never noticed before. A man seated next to her on the settee, seated in a position far too intimate for someone making only a social call.

"Ambassador Grimaldi," Chuck curtly replies. He eyes the man suspiciously, feels his heart freeze when he sees Blair's hand wrapped in that of the French Ambassador's. Louis shifts his gaze from Chuck to Blair, beams even as the young lady seated next to him does not return his gaze.

"I guess you shall be the first to hear the happy news," Louis informs him as he shifts his gaze back to Chuck and gives Blair's hand a gentle squeeze. "Miss Waldorf has just agreed to do me the great honor of becoming my wife."

For just a brief moment, Chuck thinks he might have heard the French Ambassador incorrectly, thinks he might have imagined the whole exchange. What little he slept last night had been plagued with nightmares, visions of her running out on him over and over again. And then his stomach clinches, wraps itself around his fallen heart until he can no longer breathe. His eyes search out hers, stare down the smug satisfaction until he sees it slide off her face.

"Congratulations," he manages to say. He cannot manage any more, cannot pretend to wish them happiness. He whirls on his heels, stalks out of the drawing room without a proper goodbye, and does not bother to stop until he is back on the street climbing into his carriage.

"Where to, Mister Bass?"

He harshly instructs his driver to take him to his childhood home, to take him far away from here. If Arthur is surprised, he says nothing as he closes the door behind Chuck, climbs into his seat, and flicks the reins. Chuck settles back against the plush seat of his carriage, spies the bouquet of peonies he had forgotten in the carriage in his haste. He reaches across the carriage angrily, grabs them in his hand, and tosses them out the window until they fall pitifully in the street only to be run over by the carriage behind him.


	2. Part One

**Author's Note:** First of all, I decided to rename this story. I grew to hate the original title and feel that "Repetition" more accurately reflects what this story is about. My apologies for any confusion and/or inconvenience.

Also, "C'est toi que je veux, ma chérie, tu ne veux pas venir avec moi?" translates to "I want you, baby. Won't you come to me?", which is reportedly what Chuck whispers in Blair's ear in 2x03. Thank you to eddieredbabe and chairfan for the translation help. My French can't even been called rudimentary so any mistakes made are my own.

* * *

_Five years later_

Upstairs, seated at her dressing table, she watches idly as Dorota twists and coffers her hair into a complicated knot atop her head. The dress for this evening is draped across her bed, and the decision of what to wear is weighing heavily on her mind. The gown of pale gold silk is an old favorite, selected by Dorota in an attempt to sooth her into this transition. Yet the safety of the black gowns in her wardrobe beckons to her, and she struggles to set the idea of wearing black aside, particularly given the nature of tonight's event.

"There, Miss Blair," Dorota hums excitedly with the trace of an accent as she threads the band of pearls across her employer's head through the complicated hairstyle. She tries to offer Dorota an appreciative smile – the woman has simply outdone herself yet again – yet falters when her beloved lady's maid offers her own smile in return.

"Maybe the black—"

Dorota shakes her head, informs Miss Blair that Miss Eleanor said no more black. Blair shifts uncomfortably in her seat, stares at her reflection in the mirror. Despite occurring within her childhood home, tonight's dinner will include those outside of the family – her first since donning her widow's weeds.

"Lady Serena coming," Dorota offers helpfully, mentioning the woman Blair has not seen since her own wedding as she helps lace Blair into the gown.

They had exchanged letters, of course, but Serena's flightiness coupled with the unreliable nature of mail delivery made conversing in their usual manner difficult. Still, it would be nice to see her childhood best friend again, and Blair moves towards the door with a twinge of excitement.

Dorota gives her an encouraging smile, watches as Blair sweeps out of her room towards the small party downstairs. She bites her lip when the well-bred lady leaves her behind, hopes her decision to not mention the Archibalds' attendance or Mister Bass' unanswered invitation will not be reprimanded too harshly when Blair returns.

Blair's dress sweeps behind her as she enters into the drawing room, and she cannot help but notice the look of relief cross her mother's face when she spies Blair sans black. Blair sweeps her eyes across the room, falters when she sees her childhood best friend talking to a pair of blondes on the opposite side of the room. She does not need the pair to turn to know who they are, and she inwardly scowls at the recognition.

Decorum dictates that she should greet the Lord and his whore, but thankfully Serena moves across the room without care for etiquette and immediately sweeps Blair into a tender hug.

"Oh, Blair," Serena breathes against her cheek. "I'm so glad to see you."

Serena pulls away, crinkles her beautiful features in worry before stammering out an apology. Her comment could possibly be construed as tasteless, but Blair waves her worry away when she replies that she, too, is happy to see her. Her gaze flicks to the couple Serena had been talking to in an unspoken question, in a reminder of Serena's traitorous actions.

Nearly six years ago, the pair had made a pact not to speak to the new Duke and Duchess. Not after the couple were found in flagrante at the van der Bilt's ball. Not after Nathaniel Archibald had married the former Miss Jenny Humphrey rather than the young lady he had been betrothed to since they were both in cradles, crushing Blair's – and her mother's – dreams of her becoming Blair Archibald, Duchess of Constance.

"It has been a long time," Serena offers quietly. Blair's features harden against the poor explanation, harden against the idea that Serena has decided to accept a tradesman's daughter into their ranks.

"I guess so," Blair replies testily.

She searches the room for someone else she can greet, catches the twinkling eye of her stepfather. Lord Rose silently beckons her over, and she tersely excuses herself in order to join him near the pianoforte. He is talking rather enthusiastically – although Cyrus never does anything without a large dose of animation – with a brown-haired man much taller than himself.

She appears at Lord Rose's side, basks in the warmth of his greeting before sweeping her eyes up to the man currently engaged in conversation with her stepfather. Her eyes widen and her chest tightens inexplicitly when she sees the other man's face.

"Mister Bass," she exhales in greeting, ignoring the way her stepfather views her quizzically when she interrupts his introductions.

"Miss Waldorf," Chuck replies with a stiff bow. Her eyes narrow in abhorrence, particularly when she spies the way his eyes twinkle and his lips have pulled into a self-satisfied smirk when his head rises and his eyes meet hers.

"Mrs. Grimaldi," she snaps in correction.

Her stepfather offers her a small, supportive smile and waits patiently for the man to apologize for his mistake. Yet Chuck does nothing of the sort, allows the butler's announcement that dinner is served to smooth over his gaffe.

Entrance into the dining room is a complicated dance of matching hostesses with titles and titles with wealth, and Blair sighs in relief when she finds herself being escorted into the room by Lord Beaton rather than Mister Bass. Her relief is short-lived, however, when she finds herself seated across from the former Miss Humphrey and the devil himself.

"Blair," Jenny greets without a trace of hesitation. Blair raises an eyebrow in surprise, in warning until Jenny shrinks back into her chair. Her eyes narrow further when she spies Chuck's barely covered smirk at her withering glare.

She turns her attention to the man seated at her right, tries to engage Lord Beaton in conversation. Despite her upbringing as the perfect hostess, Blair quickly becomes bored with the Lord and fervently wishes she had remained in mourning for just one more evening. The lack of stimulating conversation allows her eyes to wander, encourages her in her meticulous cataloguing each attendee's appearance.

Five years ago, she would have taken immense pleasure in the round of fat poorly obscured around Jenny's middle, but the reality of the source causes a lump to rise in her throat. She drops her gaze to the flat, angular plane of her own stomach, pulls it back up when her stepfather clears his throat beside her. She focuses on the question he is asking of the Duchess, tries to engage in the conversation occurring around her and ignore the way Mister Bass is blatantly staring at her.

* * *

Dinner is a long, tiresome affair, and Blair enters the ladies' drawing room at the end of meal with a pounding headache. She bristles under the elder Lady van der Woodsen's offer of condolences, bristles again when the women begin discussing the latest gossip. Normally, she would thrive in such conversations, but tonight she wants nothing more than to flee to her bedroom. She considers engaging Serena in conversation, shies away from the idea when she sees Serena talking animatingly with Jenny yet again.

Ignoring her mother's sharp glower, she eventually she offers her apologies, begs leave under the guise of a terrible headache. The women cluck in understanding, murmur wishes for good health as they file the incident away for the next party, for the next opportunity to sit and gossip about poor Mrs. Grimaldi.

She sweeps out of the room with the rustle of her skirts, quickly walks past the open dining room where the men are gathered smoking and conversing about topics too delicate for even a married woman. She is just around the corner, just out of the sight of those attending Lord and Lady Rose's dinner party when she runs into a firm, imposing body with a thud.

Hands reach out to steady her, wrap around her arms, and cause an electric jolt to course through her body. She jumps backwards at the feeling, at the recognition of exactly who is touching her, and her eyes widen as they connect with his.

"Miss Waldorf," he intones in greeting with a mocking bow of his head.

"You know you should not call me by my maiden name," she bites out in reply. His eyes darken at her answer, flash dangerously in response, and she cannot help the shiver that runs up her spine. His fingers curl about her arm with every word that he speaks in response.

"And you know I will never call you by his name."

"You," she accuses, "are living proof that money cannot by class."

"Ah, yes," he agrees knowingly. "Because only fluency in French is a sign of class to you."

She huffs, opens her mouth to retort his implication yet is silenced when he pulls her against him, when he leans in and exhales hot breaths against her ear. The sensation tickles, flares the smoldering embers inside her.

"Is that what you require? Sweet nothings whispered in your ear in French?"

He dips his voice even lower, slides his hands until one is settled on her waist and the fingers of the other become entangled in hers. He feels the shudder of her body against his at the next sentence out of his mouth and grins wickedly as her eyes roll in the back of her head.

"C'est toi que je veux, ma chérie. Tu ne veux pas venir avec moi?"

The implication of his words, the final sentence causes her eyes to flare open. She pushes against his chest, pushes her body away from him as she spits out her words in revulsion.

"You are disgusting, and I hate you."

"Then why are you still holding my hand?"

Her eyes flash to the sight of their coupled fingers, yank away from his just as soon as his words ring true in her ears. She stomps away from him, heads towards the gardens rather than up the stairs and misses the hungry look on his face.

She walks out the double doors onto the terrace, walks until she reaches the spot where open arches with low railings supporting the balcony above look out over the pond, the water feature in the middle of the gardens. She halts, tries to steady her breathing, feels it quicken when the sound of his footsteps reverberate in the open air.

She glances over her shoulder to confirm that it is in fact him, watches him hesitate for a brief moment under her gaze. She turns away when he walks – stalks– slowly towards her, turns away when she feels his deep gaze upon her. With every prowling step he takes, her chest tightens further until she feels lightheaded, until she feels like the weak woman she never wanted to be. She tries to muster a severely lecturing tone, abruptly swings around and gestures to the small lake.

"It's a—" she stutters, stammers, "very pleasant view."

She chides herself for such a foolish response, for choosing to deflect rather than reject. Yet she could barely manage to squeeze those words out, and she waits almost quivering as a hot flash runs through her for his response.

"Indeed," the deep murmur, the chiding tone causes the fine hairs at the nape of her neck to stir. He moves behind her, moves to take in the view from her location and causes her senses to flare. The flames licks at her heels, threatens to reach out and engulf her, to trap her yet again.

"Ah," she says as she steps quickly to her right, walks to the far side of the next arch. "If you stand over here, you can see to where—"

She falters; unsure of the name of the vegetation growing down by the pond yet doesn't dare look his way. Thankfully, even in the dead of the night, her eyesight is sharp enough to spy her saving grace.

"There's a family of ducks," she points out, pauses to count. "T—three ducklings."

She waits with eyes trained on the ducklings, watches for movement on her left out of her periphery vision. She nearly shrieks when she realizes he has circled to her right.

"Blair."

The whispering of her name nearly sends her over the edge, causes her to become so tense that she feels dizzy. His is beside her, just behind her. She whirls away, steps to her left until her back is pressed to the other side of the arch, and stares at him.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

The question is a hissed whisper, spoken harshly yet meekly in recognition that just on the other side of the windows at either end of the terrace is her mother and her friends, her stepfather and his. Her eyes widen in panic at the realization that history is repeating itself, that he is trying this yet again.

Her manufactured scowl falters as puzzlement and a certain hurt fills her eyes beyond her control. He halts, stands perfectly still with his gaze fixated on her face searching and studying. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as she drags in another breath and manages to repeat her question.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Her tone carries her real question: Why? Why here? Why now? His lashes flicker as he sighs, and, abruptly, she realizes he is as tense as she is.

"I was, as it happens, trying to get you to stand still long enough to kiss you."

The response is unsurprising; even after all these years he is still the same man he was when she first knew him, when she first allowed him to place his hands upon her. She blinks at him, manages to summon the icy tone she desperately needs.

"I do not play those games," she replies, allowing the rest of her sentence to remain unspoken between them. Her firm tone, her bolstered courage at the words causes her to lift her chin and stare at him directly. "Not with you. Not with any man."

"Liar."

The scoffing reply, the frown in his eyes causes her to stumble. Chuck takes advantage of her confusion, takes a single short step to stand directly before her. She opens her mouth to reply, closes it when she feels his hands close about her waist. Anchoring her before him with the frame of the arch against her back, he locks his eyes with her

"What made you think I was interested in games?"

She scoffs at his answer, turns her head so she no longer has to look into his eyes. They may be nearly six years older now, but she knows him, knows how much he enjoys the thrill of the chase and the sweet victory of a conquest. His fingers trace her chin, caress until she quivers against him as his next words are breathed against her cheek.

"I have no interest whatsoever in playing any games with you."

She lifts her hands, presumably to hold him off, and allows them to flutter passively to rest on his chest as she fights the astonishment coursing through her. He ignores the touch of her hands against him, zeros in on the way her tongue darts out to lick her lips evocatively. He stifles a groan and tries to give her time to study his face, time to accept that she cannot presume to know his motive.

"What, then?"

He grins, slowly bends closer and lowers his head. She notices immediately, sucks in a hesitant breath, and looks up from a distance of mere inches to meet his gaze. The gap between them closes as his lips are pressed to hers. Fully expecting to overcome some degree of chilly resistance, he raises his eyebrows in surprise when he finds that although she freezes, that although she does not immediately respond, there is no resistance on her part either.

He moves his lips gently, teasingly over hers, and tries through that simple touch to make her burn for more, for him the way he burns for her. He teases and cajoles, presses his lips against hers until her hands shift against his chest and grip his lapels, until she abruptly kiss him back.

Chuck immediately returns the caress, quickly engages her in a real exchange. Kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke until she is distracted, until he can ease his fingers and carefully take her further into his arms. She sinks into him, moans as his tongue traces the softness of her lips. He probes further, finds her tongue and caresses the warmth seeping through her.

And then he pulls away from her, smiles at the indignant harrumph that escapes her lips over the loss of contact. Her eyes open, harshly questions him as he steps away from her. She can barely catch her breath, loses it completely when he raises her fingers to his lips and feathers a soft kiss against her knuckles.

"Sleep well, Miss Waldorf."

He turns away from her, heads back into the house, and does not stop to bid his hostess goodnight. The breach in etiquette is certainly a much more minor offense than returning to the dining room for cigars and port with a distinct bulge courtesy of Lord Rose's stepdaughter.

She watches him exit curiously, watches him leave the house before darting up the staircase towards her bedroom. It is only when she reaches the landing of the second floor, when the tingling of her lips begins to subside that she realizes he once again addressed her by her maiden name.

"Dorota!"

The barking command causes the lady's maid to jump, to exit the dressing room with particular haste. She finds her charge yanking at the laces of her dress, tugging at the golden fabric she is currently cloaked in.

"I don't care what my mother says," Blair informs her maid harshly. "Only black."


	3. Part Two

Blair picks at and separates, stabs at and partitions the small serving of food in front of her into even smaller portions with the fork in hand. Her stomach feels heavy; the weight of the world gnawing at her so viciously she can barely stand to swallow even the tiniest morsel of food.

An unbecoming, graveling sound produced by the short man seated at the head of the table distracts Blair from her task. She sweeps her gaze up the long table from her seat in the middle, examines her stepfather with curious eyes. . The signs of a restless sleep are evident despite her primping, despite the old wives' tales employed by Dorota to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

"My dear Blair, I am terribly remised, and your mother reminded me this morning of a question I have been meaning to ask you since you joined us," Cyrus says warmly yet with a hint of caution to his voice. "Are you happy here at Rosewood, Blair?"

The phrasing of the question sounds odd to her, and she is momentarily unsure of how to answer. She supposes she is happy. As happy she supposes anyone in her position can be. Her stepfather and mother welcomed her into their home, and her current status allows her a particular amount of freedom not previously afforded to her before – or even during – her marriage.

Her relocation from France was a rather difficult affair, if only because the beautiful country had been her home for the last few years of her life. Staying, however, would have been almost impossible with no family to speak of save her sister-in-law, Beatrice. Greedy, vindictive, and fueled by jealousy, Beatrice nearly evicted Blair out of her and Louis' home in order to claim her son Bastien's inheritance, offering Blair the option of staying in one of the tenant cottages as her only alternative to moving to Rosewood.

"I am," she assures Cyrus with a forced smile. Her stepfather smiles genuinely in response, and Blair knows he would probably pat her hand reassuringly if he could reach her.

"What Cyrus is trying to ask," her mother interjects from the opposite end of the table, "is if you have given any thought to the possibility of remarrying."

Cyrus' fork and knife clatters to his plate in exasperation, and he looks to his wife with a chastising glare. Her mother's features reveals that she finds nothing amidst in her line of questioning, and Blair steels herself for the inevitable onslaught of nitpicking to follow.

"The black, Blair," Eleanor replies with a gesture towards her daughter's chosen attire. "It sends the wrong message."

"I have been out of mourning for less than a week, Mother," Blair reminds her pointedly.

"You are twenty-two years old," Eleanor replies sharply. "Far too young to wear widow's weeds and mourn Louis for the rest of your life."

With harshly set eyes, Eleanor mentally picks apart her daughter's decision to don black again after looking so lovely last night. With her porcelain skin, Blair normally offsets black in a striking manner. Yet Eleanor has seen her daughter wear black for far too long to find the color anything but drab and dismal now.

"You cannot have another season," Eleanor informs her daughter. The tone of her voice, the way she moves the conversation from attire to attraction makes it obvious to her daughter that Eleanor is not musing on this topic for the first time. "But there are always widowers. Lord Beaton, you know, lost his wife two years ago."

The suggestion her mother offers causes Blair's stomach to tighten further until she physically hurts. The next two comments – however malicious their intention may not be – rob her of every breath inside her body..

"Three daughters. No sons."

"No," Blair manages to finally reply forcefully her eyes fall onto her mother's face and its expression of well-meaning innocence. "I will not."

"If Lord Beaton is not to your liking, than perhaps Mister Collingsworth. He lacks a title but is certainly much wealthier than Lord Beaton. Nearly three thousand pounds per annum, according to the Dowager Countess," Eleanor states as her eyes sparkle at the idea before a vexing frown crosses her face. "Oh, but he already has a son, does he not, my Lord?"

Cyrus hums out his confirmation of Lady Rose's fears. If memory serves correctly, Mister Collingsworth has two little boys – twins born nearly eight years ago.

"Enough," Blair snaps as she moves to her feet, moves to remove herself from the table. "I will not remarry, and I ask you not to mention it again."

With that, she flees the breakfast table and leaves her exasperated mother behind. Eleanor looks to her husband for assistance, begins to chastise him for being woefully unhelpful in the conversation.

"Not to worry, my dear," Cyrus replies as he raises his cup of tea to his lips. His eyes sparkle mischievously above the china, sparkle in a way that hints there is may be more than what he is currently willing to divulge.

"You know something," Eleanor hisses accusatorially. Cyrus smiles in reply yet refuses to reveal his secrets as he takes another sip. After all, telling his wife that he spied her well-regarded daughter embracing and kissing Mister Charles Bass on the terrace of Rosewood last night would surely send the normally poised woman into a fit.

Eventually, Blair acquiesces to her mother's demand she adjourn to the drawing room from her bedroom to receive callers. She brings her embroidery with her to serve as her entertainment, sits across her from her mother and awaits the onslaught of callers her mother is confident are to come. She barely manages to finish the smallest purple flower on her design when Bertram enters the room and announces their first caller of the morning. An exhale of relief escapes from Blair's lips when she hears the name, when she sees the bob of golden hair behind the butler.

"Lady Rose," Serena bobs in greeting. The beautifully radiant blonde smiles when she turns to the younger brunette in the room. "Blair."

For anyone else, Eleanor would cluck in displeasure at the way they greeted her daughter. For Serena, however, Eleanor lets the breech in decorum slide. She has always had a soft spot for her daughter's fair best friend, holds Lady Serena van der Woodsen in the highest regard.

"Ah, Lady van der Woodsen," Eleanor greets brightly. "How lovely of you to call. I do hope you enjoyed our small dinner party last night, even as my daughter insisted on retiring early."

"Of course, Lady Rose," Serena replies happily as she sinks into the chair closest to Blair. "I was actually calling to inquire after Blair's health and ask whether she might want to join my small party at the opera tonight."

Blair bristles at the way her mother and friend speak about her as though she is not present. She opens her mouth, begins to reply that she is not fully recovered and thus shall have to decline the offer. Eleanor barrels forward, however; immediately informing Serena that Blair will be delighted to join her and queries as to whom else will be in attendance.

"The Duke and Duchess of Constance, Mister—"

'Serena's litany is curt off by the appearance of the housekeeper in the doorway of the drawing room. Mrs. Howell begs the ladies' pardon, informs Lady Rose that her ladyship is needed at once elsewhere in the house. Eleanor offers her apologies, ducks out of the room with an exasperated question to Mrs. Howell as to what might be the matter now.

"Serena," Blair says when her mother is out of earshot. "I think it is best I miss the—"

"B, please," Serena begs. "I have missed you. I want to spend time with my best friend."

"Your best friend?" Blair says whilst rolling her eyes at the label affixed to her. "No best friend of mine would invite me to spend the ending with Nate and the slut."

"Blair!" Serena chastises. She shakes her head, dismisses the label Blair has affixed to the Duchess. "I told you last night things have changed since you left. Jenny is— Nate's mother adores her."

The comment makes Blair's eyes widen in surprise. The Dowager is a notoriously picky woman, and Blair worked hard to receive even a modicum of respect from the woman she thought would one day be her mother-in-law. For Jenny to be adored by the Dowager, especially given the circumstances surrounding Jenny and Nate's marriage, shocks Blair into silence.

"Besides, you married Ambassador Grimaldi," Serena reminds her gently. Blair forces as smile at the mention of her late husband. "You lived in Paris! Everything worked out for you in the end."

The forced smiles falters and is immediately replaced by a deep frown. Serena's eyes widen at her mistake before softening as she reaches out to touch Blair's hand in a comforting gesture.

"My husband is dead," Blair snaps in reply, yanking her hand away from Serena's. "I would hardly consider that as everything working out for me in the end."

"B," Serena replies softly. At that moment, Eleanor returns to the drawing room, eyes her daughter suspiciously when she feels the tension radiating in the room. Blair stands, gathers her embroidery, and prepares to flee the room.

"Blair," Eleanor sharply calls after her. Blair pauses in the doorway, throws her mother a look of false innocence before spitting out her malicious words.

"Why not pester Serena about her lack of marriage prospects, Mother? After all, she and I are of the same age, and Serena never wears black if she can help it."

Blair sweeps out of the room, pads down the long hallway in search of solitude. She passes her stepfather's study, shoves aside thoughts of interrupting his business to complain about her mother. Daddy would have listened to her without making her feel as though she was intruding, and a pang of longing courses through her at the memories of a little girl with bouncing, brown curls hiding out in her father's study.

Across the hallway from Cyrus' office is the library with its intricately carved wood and expansive collection of books, perfectly situated near her personal sanctuary for her perusal and use.. A sitting room only three paces from the library is on the smaller side and lacks an advantageous setting to catch the morning or afternoon sun yet she fell in love with the space after Cyrus offered the space to her as a private space upon her relocation to Rosewood.

She opens the door, sighs in relief when she finds the room empty before firmly shutting the door behind her. Her mother will reprimand her for her decision to abandon her caller, but for now she will hide out here and enjoy a quiet moment to collect her thoughts. Blair sets her embroidery aside on the small tea table, picks up the book she left on the chaise lounge the other day. She sinks down onto the chaise, moves to delicately cross her ankles under her dress as she opens her book to the last page she read.

Fingers curl about her ankles, and she yelps in surprise. Blair bends at the waist, lifts the hem of her skirt, and peers under the chaise to spy the sneaky attacker. Two bright, shining eyes stare back at her. She asks the intruder for the reason behind their decision to hide, and her question is answered with a series of soft giggles rather than a verbal, understandable answer. Before she can reach for the intruder's hands, before she drag the visitor out of their hiding place, the door to her sanctuary flies open with yet another trespasser

"Lord Aaron," the nursemaid calls out in a desperate cry. She freezes when she finds the room occupied, sinks into a bobbing curtsy as Blair drops her gathered skirts and glares at the woman for the intrusion."Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. I was tryin' to locate Lord Aaron."

"Do you mean to tell me that you have lost your charge?"

"No, ma'am," the young nursemaid quickly replies. Her smile drops under Blair's harsh glare, and she amends her earlier statement solemnly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I suggest you find him before my mother discovers you misplaced him!"

"Yes, ma'am," the nursemaid says with a trembling curtsy before she flees the room.

Once the door is shut behind her, Blair scoops up her skirts and bids the hideaway to come out from under the chaise. Aaron crawls out and moves to stand in front of her, offers her mischievous giggles as she questions why he is hiding from his nanny.

"French lessons," four-year-old Aaron whines as he kicks an imaginary clump of dirt in the carpet with his fingers still jammed in his mouth.

Blair reaches forward, tugs the slobbery hand out of her brother's mouth. Her efforts to turn her brother into a gentleman, though, can only go so far until the poor boy grows some hair. Aaron takes after their mother in the coloring of his eyes, in the structure of his cheekbones, but the poor child takes after his father in the hair department.

"You should learn French," Blair informs him.

"Why?" Aaron questions as he climbs into his sister's lap. Blair kisses his poor, naked head as she contemplates Aaron's question.

"Well, accomplished lords and ladies know more than just English," Blair replies, falling back on the response that her mother always provided when she protested over learning the Romance language as a child. It is immediately clear that Aaron is not buying the answer, and so Blair offers up the reason her father used to cajole her into compliance. "I speak French."

"You do?" Aaron asks with eyes wide in surprise.

"Oui," Blair answers, smoothing the wrinkle in Aaron's coat as she speaks. "You know, Mother does not. It can be our secret language."

"Really?" Aaron asks excitedly.

Blair nods her head in confirmation, smiles at the way Aaron yells in enthusiasm. The little boy immediately slides off her lap so he may toddle back to the nursery for French lesson. The pang of longing flares when she sees him leave, flares so strongly that she has to look away and command herself to focus on the book lying across her lap.

* * *

The deep plum-colored dress is a compromise between her and Dorota, between her and her mother, and she runs a hand over her stomach in an attempt to smooth away any flaw as Cyrus' carriage pulls up in front of the Opera House. Blair takes a steadying breath as the door is opened, as the footman helps her out of the carriage. She picks up her dress so the hem does not drag on the ground and climbs the stairs with a confident air.

Serena spies her first, sweeps across the decadent and grand entrance of the building to greet her best friend warmly. She loops her arm with Blair's and steers the young woman towards the box her family owns. Blair freezes at the entrance, though, when she sees most of the chairs are occupied. The three men in attendance stand as soon as they spy her and Serena hovering in the entrance to the box.

"Mrs. Grimaldi," the Duke intones in greeting with a formal bow. Mister Daniel Humphrey and Mister Bass follow his lead, and Blair finds herself returning her own formal curtsy in reply. Serena pulls her towards the back of the box, gestures to the two empty seats before seating herself in the one nearest Mister Humphrey. With eyes narrowing in frustration, Blair takes the empty seat on the side of the box furthest from the stage between Serena and Chuck Bass.

What has changed between Serena and the former Miss Humphrey becomes abundantly clear when as the music begins, as the lights dim, Serena's hand slides into Daniel Humphrey's. Fuming, Blair stiffens in her chair and tries to focus on the opera beginning on stage as she contemplates the words she will have with Serena over this catastrophe turn of events during intermission.

Her thoughts are derailed immediately, however, by the feeling of fingers trailing down her neck. She stiffens further, shivers when the fingers stroke upward this time. She glances around discreetly, tries to ascertain who can see her in the darkness. The fingers press against the nape of her neck one last time before disappearing from her skin.

The first act of the opera is excruciatingly long and, when the curtain falls for intermission, Blair releases a shaky breath she did not realize she was holding. She turns in her seat, tries to tell Serena that she needs to speak to her with her nonverbal command and narrowed eyes, but the blonde merely shrugs away Blair's glare and asks Mister Humphrey to escort her downstairs.

The fact that Serena calls Mister Humphrey by the ever familiar nickname "Dan" causes her stomach to clench in revulsion, and the tightness in her chest increases when the Duke and Duchess of Constance decided to follow Serena and "Dan" downstairs. Five years ago, the idea of leaving Blair without a proper chaperone would be unimaginable and yet no one bats an eye at leaving Mrs. Grimaldi alone with a notorious rake.

"Miss Waldorf," Chuck utters from his seat behind her.

Blair lets out an exasperated sigh, prepares to correct Chuck yet again but chokes on the words when he rounds about the box and takes up Serena's abandoned seat beside her. She jumps to her feet, tries to move away from him when his hand curls about her wrist.

Blair immediately tugs herself out of his grip, feels it loosen until his fingers are nothing but ghosts against her skin. He stalks her to the corner of the box, follows her into the shadows because he is incorrigible, because he is clearly determined to torment her.

"Miss Waldorf," he intones in greeting once more. Every syllable of her former name is breathed against the prickling skin of her neck, and she shivers even as she tries to reprimand him for using it.

"Mrs. Grim—"

"No," he firmly replies as he steps closer to her, traps her between the wall and the hardness of his body. "I told you before – I will not call you by his name."

"Why?"

The question is squeaked out as her hand slides across the rich velvet draping the wall, claws at the smoothed fabric for support. The situation itself causes her heart to beat rapidly, to roar in her ears until she can hear nothing but her heart. The public nature of the exchange causes her heart to seize, to quiet until she can hear only him.

"Because," Chuck replies. "Because then I have to admit that I am not the only one who has had you."

"What?"

Her eyes flash to his and narrow in confusion over his choice of words. He reaches out, strokes her chin in tender affection. She closes her eyes at the sensation, opens them when she is suddenly spun around and dragged back against him.

His hands encircle her tiny waist, press against the hipbones clothed in purple. Despite the layers of fabric constituting her dress, she can still feel him against the curve of her backside and she presses against it despite herself. Chuck grins wickedly against the mass of curls atop her head, drops his head to bury his face in her exposed neck.

"Admit it. Your marriage was just what I knew it to be," Chuck suggests. "A shame, a farce, a—"

"You know nothing about my marriage," Blair snaps as she strains against his hands.

"No?" Chuck questions hotly. He turns his head, whispers the next words in her ear. "What names did he call you when you made love?"

Blair immediately turns her head away from him, tries to move his lips away from her ear. He breathes across her neck as he moves his head, holds her chin in place delicately with his finders, and whispers in her other ear.

"Where did he put his hands?"

The question is asked as Chuck trails his fingers across her exposed collarbone from left to right. She shudders against the sensation, sinks further against him in anticipation and longing just as he opens his mouth to ask her just one more question.

"Where are your children?"

Quickly and with a great amount of force, Blair extracts herself from Chuck's embrace. Her eyes flare in anger as her open palm cracks across the face. The sound reverberates in the box, reverberates in both their ears as she looks at him in disgust and loathing. Chuck's hand reddens immediately, and he looks at her with a mixture of shock – and dare she say it – desire.

"You know nothing of my marriage," she hisses. "You know nothing of me. You never had me. You never will have me."

She hastily moves away from him, although he makes no move to stop her from fleeing. Her efforts to leave are stymied by the return of the other four members of the party, each of whom looks at her with questioning and entreating eyes. She shields away her surfacing emotions, squashes them under the mask of societal perfection as she explains to her hostess that her headache from last night has returned.

Serena offers to travel home with her, but Blair waves her suggestion away and promises that the two will speak soon. The way she says it leaves no doubt in Serena's mind even as the blonde waffles between staying with Dan or following Blair and making sure her best friend is well. Ultimately, the hand against her elbow guiding her back into the box as the music plays again wins, offering Blair the opportunity to slip away without another questioning glance from the blonde.

Her body has stopped shaking in anger by the time Cyrus' carriage is pulled around front, by the time she is safely ensconced from the prying eye of those around her. The carriage pulls away from the Opera House just as the single tear in the corner of her right eye is wicked away with gloved fingers, leaving a small wet spot on her otherwise meticulous attire.


	4. Part Three

_Spotted: Mrs. Grimaldi holding a tete-a-tete with Mister Bass at Lord Beaton's ball. Words of war or words of love? Either way, the conversation looked heated, and I for one am looking forward to the devil going up in flames._

* * *

For over two weeks, Blair managed to avoid every member of the small party she attended the ill-fated opera with. The same could not be said of Lord Marcus Beaton, who joined her family's dinner party once and called upon her twice.

The first of his visits had been a rather awkward encounter. Her mother sat on the opposite side of the room, mentally planning their wedding right down to lace of the dress her daughter would wear. Blair tried to play the perfect hostess, tried to keep the conversation moving by utilizing her extensive experience as the Ambassador's wife. But hearing Lord Beaton drone on and on about the dogs he breeds at his estate in the northern part of the country turned her into a rather unengaged conversationalist. She had been glad to see him leave and wished he would never return.

Her hopes were dashed when Marcus returned in two days' time with his stepmother for another visit. Their appearance at Rosewood sent the tongues of the society matrons wagging in discussion over what the visit could mean, in discussion over how unpleasant Lord Beaton's stepmother is. Her ability to turn her nose up at everything is rivaled only by that of the Dowager Duchess of Constance.

Still, Lady Catherine Beaton is willing to recognize her stepson's need to marry sooner rather than later. With no son in the nursery, the lineage of their family remains insecure and, although not nearly as important, there is the matter of Marcus' three daughters. Comely girls aged seven, six, and three who will not grow to become refined young ladies without the firm, guiding hand of a mother.

Her impeccable manners and untarnished reputation would have made Mrs. Blair Grimaldi an ideal choice to become the next Lady Beaton. Hesitation for Lady Catherine derived entirely from Mrs. Grimaldi's apparent lack of fertility, confirmed by the presence of neither a son nor daughter in tow upon her return from France. Still, an invitation to the Beaton's ball arrived the day after Lady Catherine and Marcus's visit, and Eleanor had immediately started sketching out the dress she would order for her daughter to wear.

* * *

The deep red is a great departure from the solemn colors Blair has become accustomed to seeing on her frame, and she pulls at the fabric in discomfort over the way it clings and accentuates.

"If all goes well tonight," Eleanor twitters. Blair sighs and focuses her gaze on the scenery passing by outside the window. Cyrus touches Eleanor's arm lightly in an attempt to silence her, in an attempt to get her to notice her daughter's displeasure. "I am merely reminding Blair that if all goes well tonight, things could become very advantageous for us."

"My dear," Cyrus entreats gently. Eleanor huffs in reply as she moves her gaze from her husband to focus on her daughter. Her lips purse as she drinks in Blair's appearance, as she notices the poorly masked dark circles under her daughter's eyes.

The carriage slows as it reaches the front steps of the Beaton's estate, and the doors open to expose the opulent house draped in light from the soft glow of candlelit lanterns. Cyrus climbs out first, assists his wife and then his stepdaughter out of the carriage before escorting the pair of lovely ladies towards the ballroom.

Eleanor's eyes take in every aspect of the house and mentally calculate the costs. The Beatons are not as wealthy as the Roses, but their lineage is slightly more prestigious than the name Eleanor gained with her newest marriage. Lord and Lady Rose greet their hostesses upon their entrance to the estate. Eleanor beams at her daughter's perfect pose, narrows her eyes at the way Lady Catherine seems only a trifle pleased with Blair. Cyrus immediately excuses himself to join some of the gentlemen on the far corner of the room, and Eleanor uses the opportunity to speak with her only daughter.

"Only two dances tonight, my dear," Eleanor reminds Blair as they move across the ballroom to join Lady Lillian van der Woodsen, Lady Serena, the Dowager Countess, and Anne's daughter-in-law. "No more. No less."

"I know, Mother," Blair replies icily behind her mask of false serenity. She follows her mother's lead and graciously greets Serena and Lily, hides her flinch of displeasure as Jenny and Anne offer their own salutations.

Blair sits out the first three dances, watches Serena whirl about the ballroom with her full dance card as the four married women beside her discuss the merits of each partner. She scoffs at the way Jenny offers Lily false hope with each pairing, scoffs at the way every woman around her hangs on the word of the former Miss Humphrey. Yet all the while Blair marvels over how Serena has managed to keep her liaison with Mister Daniel Humphrey as secret from everyone, how Serena continues to appear so effortlessly beautiful and happy.

* * *

Blair moves through the opened doorway, moves past the men and women clustered about the room as she searches for a safe place to hide. Heavy footsteps – the kind that arise at the failure to pick up one's feet – follow behind her, overpowering the first strains of the set drifting over the crowd's head and replacing the soft music with a thudding annoyance in her ears.

"Where are we going?"

Blair glances at the man following behind her, at the man whose boots snag her slippers with each step as he walks too close to her heels. She did not ask him to join her, and she finds herself becoming increasingly annoyed with his presence. Her mother had insisted he accompany her out of the crowded ballroom following their horrific dance where he stepped on her toes over and over again, although Eleanor had been quick to caution her daughter not slink in dark corners in search of solitude.

"I want to see what lies beyond here," Blair lies through her gracious smile as she leads him into the nearly empty gallery. "The air in the ballroom is so stale."

Blair heads towards the series of long windows overlooking the garden, brushes past the handful of couples holding tete-a-tetes without the watchful gazes of their mothers in her quest for fresh air. The summoning strain of the music encourages the few other couples in the room to rejoin the festivities in the other room. The realization that she had been deserted to remain alone with a man again could have become a suffocating prospect had not her accompaniment been Lord Beaton.

Marcus – being the gentleman he is – frowns at the solitude, pauses in the middle of the narrow room to contemplate the consequences of joining her. Blair is standing at the window, gazing out at the darkness cloaking the gardens from view and he vacillates between his options until a deep voice interrupts his meditation.

"Beaton."

She freezes at the voice, sees Chuck strolling out of the shadows shrouding the door from her peripheral vision. The niceties expected of him as a gentleman are not given. Chuck neither bows nor scrapes in the presence of a Lord, and Blair is unsurprised to find that Lord Beaton is offering more respect than he is being given.

"Mrs. Grimaldi is engaged to me for this dance," Chuck informs Marcus icily, forcefully. Blair opens her mouth to rebuke his lie, but Chuck pushes forward and gestures to the woman by the window with a jerk of his head.

"Since she feels the need for a quieter surrounding, I will wait with her here. No doubt you have engagements of your own in the ballroom."

Blair watches Lord Beaton hesitate for just a moment, glancing once more at Blair before nodding his head in agreement with Chuck's wishes. His decision to leave her alone accompanied confounds her, and she snorts in derision at the words of comfort Chuck offers her.

"Mrs. Grimaldi, I assure you, will be safe with me," Chuck drawls out with a smirk only detectable to the female in the room. "I will return her to Lady Rose at the conclusion of the dance. Until then, I believe her time is mine."

"You do not have to leave, my Lord," Blair calls after Marcus. He glances at her briefly, and the look of terror on his face causes her to furrow her brow in confusion. Marcus could not be foolish enough as to believe she would be safe alone with a man of Chuck's reputation, and she contemplates the extenuating circumstances that might push him into such a belief. Marcus turns on his heel, leaves the pair alone, and shuts the door behind him.

"You might want to find a stronger suit of armor," Chuck informs her. "He left us alone quite quickly for someone so esteemed."

The faint amusement in his voice stirs the anger inside her, and she lifts her chin in dismissal as he moves to stand in front of her.

"I never said I would dance with you," Blair reminds him sharply as she moves to cross her arms, to put up barriers to his advances. He reaches out, catches her hand, and holds it lightly in his own as he raises her fingers to his lips.

"If this dance is not to your liking, we can always join the next set," Chuck replies as his lips skate over her gloved knuckles to his lips. She frowns, yanking her hand out of his grasp.

"I do not dance with men who embarrass me."

"So then why waste a dance on Beaton?" Chuck asks with quirked lips. He speaks as though his comment is a statement rather than a question.

"Lord Beaton," Blair huffs, "is a gentleman. Dancing with him would not be an embarrassment to me or my family."

"A gentleman, you say?" Chuck arches one brown eyebrow as he questions her. "I've never met a gentleman who leaves an unmarried woman alone with a notorious rake."

She falters for a moment, remembers the way Marcus had looked at Chuck before he left her alone with him. Her mind races towards the only logical conclusion, connects the dots so quickly that she seethes with anger.

"Did you threaten him? Or bribe him?"

"I thought knights couldn't be intimidated into compliance," Chuck says with a baiting smirk, with delight over the way she simmers and glares and acts as though she knows everything.

"Lord Beaton is not a knight," Blair replies, exasperated with Chuck's complete lack of decorum or respect for the organization of society. A typical nouveau riche who thinks money rather than class or bloodlines determines one's station in life. "Don't you know anything?"

Chuck pauses for a moment before leaning forward and exhaling his response with a hot, tickling breath against her cheek.

"I know a suit of armor makes for a cold bedfellow."

She closes her eyes at the suggestion, commands herself not to move as a shiver runs up and down her spine. His lips quirk into a smile at the way she reacts, and he slides the back of his hand down her arm leaving a prickle of skin in his wake as he moves to grasp her fingers again.

"Come," Chuck extols. "The music is ending soon, and I would like to claim my dance."

Her eyes fly open, flare in anger as his assumption. She removes her fingers from his grasp yet again, and steps backwards into the large window in order to create distance between them.

"I have not agreed to dance with you," Blair rebukes. "And I do not know what game you are trying to play, but I am not a pawn to be used and then cast aside at your leisure."

"Enough," he demands. His tone is neither drawling nor cynical, but rather sharp and overlaid with a myriad of emotions she cannot detect. "If you are a pawn, Blair, than so am I because I am not in control and it is some higher power that moves us."

"God," she answers incredulously. She has never known Chuck Bass to attend church services; although she is quite sure he would burst into flames if he ever tried. The Lord would not allow the devil incarnate into his home.

"Fate," Chuck corrects as his lips twist into a half-smile, half-grimace. Blair considers his response for one minute then draws a deep breath and rejects the heretical suggestion. Neither fate nor destiny determines the outcomes of one's life.

"You disagree with me?"

"I don't…"

Blair trails off uncomfortably as the already muffled music begins to fade further, as the set culminates, as the dance ends. Her eyes widen in panic, and her gaze shifts to the door. Chuck follows her line of sight, glances back at her and then again at the door before he steps aside and creates an appropriate amount of space between them.

"I look forward to enlightening you during the next dance, then," Chuck replies as the door to the gallery is wrenched open.

He does not wait for her reply, moves towards the sideboard in order to investigate the contents of the decanter sitting atop it. He uncorks the decanter, begins to pour himself a drink into one of the glasses placed atop the sideboard. He pretends not to notice the way she scurries out of the gallery, the way she tries to hide her face from the prying eyes of those couples that have decided to reinvade the space. He swallows the amber liquid in a single gulp before following after her intent upon claiming his dance.

* * *

Chuck finds her seated between Lady Rose and Lady van der Woodsen. He greets them both corrigibly enough, doesn't fail to miss the way Lily beams at him. Even though they had been parted for mere moments – certainly not long enough for her to forget – she feigns ignorance at the way he tries to claim his dance. Her stepfather intervenes, encourages his stepdaughter to honor her commitment despite the twin icy glares from both his wife and stepdaughter. He takes Blair's small hand within his own, leads her out onto the dance floor.

"Shall I enlighten you about the truth of fate?"

His question is a soft whisper against her ear, a dangerous invitation to invite him in further than necessary. She ignores him as they revolve around stately figures, as he draws her in and captures her attention until the dancers around them, the crowd, and the room itself fades from her mind.

"Or should I enlighten you as to the benefits of a _warm_ bedfellow?"

"Enough," she snaps. She affixes her gaze on his deep eyes, even though she knows it would be prudent to affix her attention on something else entirely. Prudence, however, stands no change against the magnetism between them, and curiosity stands no chance against Blair's resolve for answers.

"I received your note."

"But not the flowers?"

"Dorota," she pauses, amends her statement at the quizzical quip of his eyebrow. "My maid threw them away. You cannot be sending me flowers."

"I should not," he corrects. "There is a difference."

She looks away from him at his correction and pretends to focus on the steps of this dance. There is no need, though. He matches her skill step for step. The tone of the music changes and instructs the pair to move separately about the room in an exchange of partners for the next few moments. She encircles Mister Collingsworth, passes by Lord Beaton and Nate before rejoining her partner.

"You read the note, though?"

She answers him neither verbally nor with a nod of her head. Rather, he reads her eyes and sees the acknowledgment in their dark depths. He watches her curiously, watches her mouth opens and closes as she struggles to find the words.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you send it?"

"Because," he muses on the exhale of a breath. He entrenches her eyes with his own, tries to make her see him the way he sees her. "Because I hurt you."

The end of the song underscores his point, forces her to move away from him before she is ready. She feels like sinking to the floor, but pride keeps her upright as she forces herself to draw a deep breath and he escorts her back to her mother's side. Blair manages to keep her face as impassive as possible; thanks him politely for the dance and watches him return to the shadows of the room.

The weight of the entire room is upon her as eyes stare and voices titter in excitement, compounding the insecurity Blair feels tonight. Her mother hisses her displeasure over the wasting of a dance in her daughter's ear, hisses about how Blair cannot allow herself to be singled out by Charles Bass for his only dance of the night.

Blair finds herself murmuring an apology more to herself than anyone else. Too busy mulling over his words, she loses to him the shadows almost immediately and loses herself to thoughts of the note buried in the box of mementos hidden under her bed back at Rosewood. The note that arrived the day after the fiasco at the opera attached to a bouquet of peonies and containing only two words before the flourished signature of two initials. The note that kept her awake and plagued her thoughts until the wee hours of the morning as she tried to figure out what the cryptic message meant.

_Mrs. Grimaldi — CB_


	5. Part Four

_Spotted: Mrs. Grimaldi out for a walk with the Duke of Constance. Careful, Little J. You know better than all what happens when a man and a woman are together alone sans supervision._

* * *

The pronunciation is butchered, but the demand for attention rings loud and clear in the older woman's ears. The little boy bangs his stick against the wooden wheel, chases the rolling toy down the slope of the path in front of him, and tries to keep the momentum going.

When he gets several paces in front of her, when the wheel falls pathetically at his feet, Blair offers a smile of pride and words of encouragement in their shared, secret language. Little Lord Aaron Rose beams at the praise, even if he not quite sure of the means of all the words his sister speaks. He picks up the hoop, releases the toy once again, and sets off on the chase.

"Miss Blair," Dorota cautions as a man steps out from behind a thicket of tall grasses along the path. Her words of caution do not come quickly enough for Blair to step off the path and avoid the oncoming confrontation.

"Mrs. Grimaldi," the man says with a bow. She returns his greeting with a curtsy, rises to meet his clear eyes with her dark ones. The blonde offers a smile, chuckles when the young boy by his side greets her with his own bow.

"Good afternoon," Blair replies with a shorter curtsy and an eyebrow quipped in surprise.

"Theodore Archibald," Nate informs her as he places his hand on the shoulder of blond boy. "My son."

The clarification of their relationship is unnecessary given the boy's appearance. The same blonde hair, the same eye color, and the same smile stand side by side. The young boy is taller than Aaron, clearly older than Blair's younger brother, and a wave of indignation crosses her face as she realizes how quickly the boy must have arrived after his parents' marriage to be this grown-up.

The wooden wheel rolls in the space between her and the carbon copies in front of her, stops only by the quick movements of Dorota. Aaron comes running past them in his quest to locate his hoop, stops only when Dorota's hand curls around the collar of his coat. Dorota yanks him backwards, gestures to those standing around him with an annoyed expression.

"Ouch!" Aaron cries, rubbing his hand over his neck as he comes to stand by his older sister. He greets Nate and Theo with a quick hello, ignores the sharp glare of his sister in displeasure over his manners.

"Wanna play with my hoop?" Aaron asks Theodore after introductions are made. Theodore looks to his father for permission, immediately begins chasing after the hoop when his father allows it with an agreeable nod and a ruffle of his son's hair.

"It is nice to have you back in town," Nate says as he and Blair begin walking down the path after Theo and Aaron with a cautious Dorota in tow. "We have missed you."

"Have you?" Blair asks with a view dripping in disbelief. Nate misses the tone, though, and keeps moving forward with his niceties.

"Life isn't the same without you around. Remember when we were children?"

There is another question Blair wants to ask, a question that hangs from the tip of her tongue. She wants to know what changed between them, wants to know if he remembers when they were going to marry. But she holds her tongue as Nate continues to muse about days long gone, about the exploits of Nate, Serena, Chuck, and Blair before they were separated by age and gender, by what they should and could be.

Serena and Chuck rebelled in their own ways, in tattered reputations and poor decisions. Nate and Blair, however, dove headlong into the lives their parents planned for them until Nate derailed it all, throwing her into a path leading to nothing but social ruin.

"And now?" Nate says, interrupting Blair's revere. "I don't think I've seen Chuck in the last five years as much as I have since you arrived."

Blair pauses mid-step, looks at Nate curiously as the words sink in. Chuck and Nate had been the best of friends, completely inseparable from one another even as their lives diverged in those formidable years.

"He hasn't said a word to me," Nate explains cautiously. He drops his voice, darts his eyes about to see who might be listening. "Not since the night where I found him and—"

"Miss Blair," Dorota interrupts upon seeing the uneasiness flicker across her employer's face. Blair curtly dismisses the maid, turns her attention back to the man standing in front of her.

"He was so angry. I don't think he has for—"

The shouting cries of Theodore and Aaron interrupt their conversation again, and Nate takes the interruption as a reminder that he must return home with his son. He mentions having a dinner with the four members of their childhood club before ducking away and heading in the opposite direction of Aaron and Blair.

* * *

Her fingers roam across the keys; her mind choosing a piece without conscious direction. Years of tutelage under masters of musical performance, of being told to sit up straighter and practice harder crammed so many pieces into her head that normally she can play a piece from beginning to end with little concentration. And yet all she can manage today is to drift from one piece to another, creating a restless, disjointed melody to match her mood. Taking Aaron on a walk through the park with Dorota serving as companion and chaperon was meant to distract her, meant to lend order and structure to her day.

And for a period of time her efforts had been successful.

She enjoyed watching Aaron play with his simplistic toy, enjoyed conversing and praising him in French. Nevertheless, the run in with Nate had colored the experience, soured it so badly that she spent the remainder of the walk and the hours since analyzing his words over and over again.

Despite their different stations in life, Mister Bass and the future Duke of Constance had been inseparable. The two were in many ways better friends than the former Miss Waldorf and Lady van der Woodsen, and the knowledge that Chuck has barely spoken to Nate in the last five years confounds her.

. She could not help but see Nate in a different light after his hasty marriage to Jenny Humphrey. The bitter disappointment of losing everything she thought she would be had not dissipated in the years since. But Nate being the one who discovered Blair and Chuck at the masquerade ball with the bodice of her dress puddled around her hips had been a blessing in disguise.

Having almost fallen victim to the games played by women like Jenny Humphrey, a gentlemen such as the Duke of Constance would be sympathetic to her plight, would understand how easy it would be fall victim to the games played by men like Chuck Bass. And Blair knows that is why Nate hushed up the incident, protecting her reputation until she was safely married to a reputable man

But then for Nate to say that Chuck had been angry, for Nate to place the blame for their fractured friendship solely on Chuck's shoulders muddles her thoughts and understanding of the situation. Of course, she expected Chuck to be angry over the interruption, over the prevention of him being able to take things further, but she never expected—

Her fingers slam against the keys in her distraction, slam against the keys to create a cringe worthy sound. She grits her teeth, forces herself to relax and draw in a deep breath. She moves her hands back into place, determinedly lays her fingers again the keys in preparation of playing again, and closes her eyes as she waits for the notes to come.

"And to think Master Gellert said you were the most promising pupil he has ever had the pleasure of teaching."

Her lips dip into a frown, and she does not need to open her eyes to know who the voice beckoning from the open French doors belongs to. His words are meant in jest, meant to remind her of bygone days. Or maybe, a voice deep inside her suggests, meant to wound.

She contains herself, raises her chain against him in a rejection of his words. Master Gellert said nothing of the sort. He described her as dedicated, diligent but never, ever promising. That word was attached to Master Gellert's laziest pupil, to the one who refused to practice yet seemed to have an innate gift for music.

"That was you," she replies. Her voice is firm, tainted with a hint of annoyance.

Blair lifts her fingers from the keys, gives up on the idea of music being the thing to soothe her restlessness. She remains seated on the bench, refuses to stand and greet him least he take her actions as the proper hostess as an invitation to stay. And yet he takes her seated presence as invitation enough.

Chuck comes to sit on the bench beside her, sits next to her despite the narrow length of the bench and the impropriety of their closeness. His leg brushes against hers, and she would be unsurprised to learn he did it on purpose.

His fingers replaces hers on the keys, begin to flow across the keys in the creation of hauntingly uncertain music. She watches his long fingers, watches the way they move and flex and press so masterfully against the keys. The music grows more eloquent, insistently draws her in as the song he plays changes from one she recognizes to one she does not.

Blair raises her head, sweeps her eyes from his fingers to his features. His expression is unreadable, and her frown deepens over the fact as Nate's earlier words come rushing back to her.

"Why aren't you talking to Nate?"

This time it is his fingers that slam against the keys, his fingers that create an ugly noise. Chuck turns to look at her, presses his leg against hers as he shifts on the bench beside her. His voice constricts in jealousy as he questions the familiar way she refers to the Duke. Blair ignores the tone, ignores it in the same way he chooses to ignore the fact that the four of them were childhood friends or that she and Nate had been betrothed from the time they were small children in the nursery.

"Nate said you've barely spoken two words to him since…"

She trails off uncomfortably, shifts her gaze from his face to where her hands have begun to fidget in her lap. Their knees bump through the fabric of her dress as he leans closer to her, as he breathes his words directly into her face.

"Since he walked in on us making love," Chuck fills in for her in a low voice.

Her eyes immediately flash about to make sure they are in fact alone. Her cheeks color even as her anger bubbles, as her eyes narrow and she begins to reject his application of such a term to what they had been engaged in.

"We were not making—"

"We were," Chuck interrupts firmly, tipping her head with his fingers so she has no choice but to look at him. His thumb strokes her jawline, strokes it so tenderly that she closes her eyes at the sensation. "And you know it."

Her voice catches in her throat and she finds herself unable to repeat her earlier question as Chuck traces her jawline once again. She shivers at the sensation, fights it as she forces herself to open her eyes and steady them on his. And then she shivers again at his beseeching gaze, at the depth that yanks and pulls and drags her under.

Blair raises a hand and watches curiously to see if he will flinch away, to see if he will reach out and stop her. When he does not, when he holds steady, she reaches out and touches his cheek.

He rocks at the sensation, at the intimacy of her soft fingers tracing the outline of his cheek bone. Her breath catches, her eyes widen, and she wonders how she became a woman so possessed as her fingers pass over his cheek to reach one corner of his lips. Chuck moves his head just enough to brush a kiss across her fingertip.

She shivers from the burning sensation, shivers from the warmth traveling up her fingers. She feels practically feverish, and her fingers begin to slip away from his lips in order to escape the heat. Her efforts fail, however, when Chuck's runs his thumb across the smooth curve of her jaw and cups her chin his palm.

He leans in, smiles twistedly when her eyelids immediately fall, and hears a different kind of melody when he lowers his lips to hers. She hesitates for an instant before she kisses him back, and he waits just one more beat before demanding more. Sliding his fingers further, sliding his fingers to rest at the nape of her neck, he raises his other hand and holds her face as they meet and move in a compelling rhythm.

Chuck's tongue invades her mouth with the arrogance of a conqueror claiming the spoils of war, and Blair finds herself drawn into a game she does not understand. Yet the slide of lips against lips, the glide of hot tongue against hot tongue makes her more than willing to play.

"Mon!"

A small voice shouts and the pair breaks away at the intrusion. Blair flushes with shame, flushes as her eyes dart to spy Aaron standing with his hands on his hips and a deep scowl on his lips. The little boy nearly pushes Chuck away as he clambers into his sister's lap and, in fact, Chuck is forced to slide off the bench and stand.

Normally, Blair would correct Aaron's rude behavior, force him apologize for his actions. Grateful for the excuse to put distance between her and Chuck, however, she assists Aaron as he climbs into her lap and pulls the little boy closer to her chest.

"Aaron, say hello to Mister Bass."

The little boy scowls, drapes his legs territorially over his sister's lap, and crosses his arms. His nursemaid and one of the parlor maids were gossiping about his sister as they watched him play, discussing how Blair would be leaving him once Mother found her another man to marry. He did not quite understand what they were saying, but the idea of her leaving was distressing. Even more so for Aaron after overhearing his nursemaid say Blair would no longer play with him after she moved away.

He made his escape to find his sister, laid claim to her when he found her alone with Chuck, and it falls on Blair to goad him into saying hello. She brushes her lips across and then presses her cheek to his bald head when he complies with her demand.

"Hello," Aaron greets before popping his thumb into his mouth. Chuck greets the little boy in turn with a bow, acts with more propriety and decorum around a four-year-old than he does members of the Ton.

"What were you doing?" Aaron questions as his eyes dart from Blair to Chuck and back again. Blair freezes in panic because not even she knows the answer and her eyes frantically dart to Chuck for assistance in answering the question.

They are saved, however, by the appearance of Blair's stepfather. Cyrus greets each of them in turn, begins by offering Chuck an apology for keeping him waiting and ends by asking Aaron if he is bothering his sister. Blair interjects, promises Cyrus that she enjoys having the little boy about.

"And what about you, Mister Bass?" Cyrus asks. His twinkling eyes flit from Blair to his business partner, and a teasing smile graces his lips. "Do you enjoy entertaining both Blair and my son in my absence?"

For a brief moment, the questions hang in the air answered before Cyrus sweeps them away as rhetorical in nature. He invites Chuck to join him in his study and then lifts his son off of Blair's lap, sends the little boy off to find his nursemaid before informing Blair that Lady Serena van der Woodsen is waiting for an audience with Blair in her private sitting room.

* * *

"I ran into Nathaniel Archibald in the park today while I was out with Aaron," Blair informs Serena offhandedly. She raises her cup of tea to her lips, takes a small sip before moving forward with the conversation. "He mentioned having a dinner party with the four of us – you, me, His Grace, and Mister Bass."

"Chuck?" Serena asks. Her noise wrinkles at the suggestion not in disgust but rather in surprise. The idea of Blair suggesting such a party would be more conceivable than someone who has been in the thick of things for the last five years. "I doubt he will come. It's not like he spends time with Nate anymore."

Blair tries to play off the information, but her curiosity is peaked yet again as the words ring similar to those spoken to her by Nate earlier in the day. She raises an eyebrow in question, presses Serena for information in such a way that the blonde fails to pick up on her desperate need to further clarification.

"According to Nate, they have not spent time together since he disappeared right before your wedding."

"Do you—" Blair hesitates, fights the panic welling up in her chest. "Do you know what happened between them?"

"No," Serena replies with the shake of her head sadly. "Nate wouldn't say. Just that Chuck was really angry with him over something that happened at the masquerade ball."

"Hmm," Blair replies in the most disinterested voice she can muster. She lifts the teapot and refills her and Serena's empty teacups as she changes the topic of discussion. "Have you given any more thought to what I said?"

"I am not ending my relationship with Dan," Serena replies cuttingly as she accepts the refilled teacup Blair offers her. "He's a good man. He –"

"Works for the _Spectator_," Blair replies. "He does not own the business. He works for it."

"He is a writer," Serena corrects. "The _Spectator_ just pays for his bills until he can source a publisher for his novel."

"A novelist?" Blair questions derisively as though the occupation is worse than journalist. "And how do you suppose he is going to support you? Mooch off his sister for the rest of his life?"

Blair's investigative work had uncovered that Mister Daniel Humphrey and his father, Rufus, had moved in with the former Miss Humphrey following her advantageous match. The magnificent house in town and the vast estate Blair once thought she would be mistress of are now blighted by an infestation of Humphreys.

"Does it matter?" Serena questions. "The way he looks at me – I don't need all of this. I don't want to be Lady Serena van der Woodsen anymore."

"But you are," Blair interjects. "You're perfect and beautiful and—"

"Unhappy," Serena replies frankly. "Unless I am with him, I am unhappy. Do I not deserve to have the same happiness you had with the Ambassador?"

No, Blair wants to say. Because that brand of happiness comes with crushing loneliness and bitter disappointment, with loss and longing.

"What you deserve is the finest jewels, the newest fashions from Paris, and a magnificent estate to command," Blair replies. "But happiness for women such as us does not appear to be our fates."


	6. Part Five

Author's Note: Apologies for the delay. I've pulled a few all-nighters and no one wants to see my writing after that. Please bear with me in the next few weeks as I finish up the semester.

* * *

_Spotted: Mrs. Grimaldi enjoying the day on a ride through town in the company of Lord Beaton. By all accounts, our favorite widow should be thrilled by the attention. We all know Lady Rose is. But I'm starting to get the feeling that Mrs. Grimaldi would rather undertake the detestable activity of fishing than anything else with anyone other than a Bass._

* * *

Her nails dig into her palm through the fabric of her glove as heads turn as to stare, as eyes widen in recognition, as names are whispered and spread like a wildfire. Her attention is waning; her focus confined to thoughts of how she will manage to escape from her mother's horrible designs for her life. The carriage rounds the corner to turn down the road back to her home, and even at the slow speed she slides across the seat and bumps into the driver.

"My apologies, my Lord," Blair murmurs softly as she shifts back across the seat, back to her side of the imaginary line she has drawn between them. Lord Beaton says nothing in response. The only acknowledgement of her words is the tightening of the reins in his hands.

They have barely spoken throughout the entire ride other than a quick conversation about the weather that ended in agreement over the pleasantry of the day. Blair has no idea what to bring up as a conversational topic. The only idea that comes to mind is to ask after Lord Beaton's dogs, and she is not desperate enough to subject herself to that conversation for the remainder of their time together. And so she sits in silence, keeps her gaze forward and her back straight, and digs her nails into her palms tighter and tighter.

"Do you like children, Mrs. Grimaldi?"

Lord Beaton's question catches her unaware, and she pauses for a long moment as she tries to ascertain how to answer him. To admit that she is not a motherly person would set her at odds with the expectations of society for both her gender and a woman of her age. She should long for a family of her own, long for children to hold and love, and to confess otherwise would dash all hopes of her every marrying again. Not to say that would be a bad thing, but she feels uncomfortable confessing it all the same.

"Your mother said you are quite fond of your younger brother," Lord Beaton offers. "I believe he is only a year older than my youngest."

"Yes," Blair replies, allowing the single word to answer both of Lord Beaton's statements in the affirmative. The truth is that she is quite fond of Aaron. She enjoys playing with him and conversing with him in French, enjoys his inquisitive questions and the way he drives the household insane with his disappearing act. He soothes this ache she has, fills a void that she would otherwise spend hours alone dwelling upon.

"I have three daughters," Lord Beaton says as though the information is not already common knowledge. If he had a son, more than half of the matrons in society would cross him off their list of possible suitors for their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters. "Arabella is seven, Honoria is six, and Patience is three."

Blair manages to contain her unladylike snort of disapproval over Lord Beaton's youngest daughter's name. She will never understand the thought process behind naming your daughter after a virtue. After all, virtue falls and she has never met a woman in the genuine possession of even an ounce of patience.

"Do you see much of your daughters?" Blair asks. She cannot claim to be interested in this topic of conversation, but it is a substantial improvement over the silence and she manages to grit the question out between clinched teeth.

"Town is no place for young children," Lord Beaton replies with a hint of incredulity in his voice. Blair's features tighten in surprise, unsure if he is criticizing her question or her mother's decision to keep Aaron in town rather than banishing him off with governesses and nursemaids to see to his every need and whim. "My stepmother…Lady Catherine insists the girls stay on the country estate. She says life is easier when children are neither seen nor heard."

If Lord Beaton's voice had not compressed into sadness, Blair would not have been able to hold her rage inside her. Most of society would probably agree with Lady Catherine, and there was a time with Blair too would have insisted her mother follow Lord Beaton's advice. But not anymore, not after—

"Perhaps you can bring them to town for a brief stay," Blair offers. "There is much to see and do and excitement to be had even when children are about."

It is only after the words leave her mouth, only after she feels Lord Beaton staring at her and her eyes turn to meet his eager gaze that Blair begins kicking herself for the things she has said. She had not meant her words to be an invitation to anyone but Lord Beaton's daughters, and she certainly had not meant them an invitation for Lord Beaton to presume any kind of interest on her behalf in meeting them. She frowns, contemplates how to reject Lord Beaton's unspoken happiness when the carriage begins to slow, when the carriage stops in front of Rosewood.

Blair extracts herself from the carriage with the shortest of goodbyes and without an offer for Lord Beaton to join her for tea. If he is disappointed, he manages to mask it well as he offers her a terse bow of his head and sets off in the carriage again.

* * *

"Miss Blair!"

Her name is spoken in a hissed calling, spoken far above the whispered octave used by all the other servants to address her. She offers Dorota a glare of annoyance over her incessant impertinence and continues to climb the stairs as her lady's maid hurries to catch up with her.

"Miss Blair," Dorota repeats as she wrings her hands in worry. "Your mother said for you to come speak with her as soon as you return."

Blair glances at her clothing, glances up the stairs towards the room where she had planned to call for a hot bath to soak away the grit and grim of a ride in an open carriage. Where she had planned to change and then cloistered herself away with a book and her unrelenting thoughts until Bertram announced for dinner.

"She say now, Miss Blair. Not to worry about changing."

Blair surmises the later statement is likely the root of Dorota's worry because there has never been a day when Eleanor Waldorf-Rose was more concerned with speaking to her daughter than her daughter's appearance. She acquiesces to the maid's demands and allows Dorota to lead her to where her mother waits as she tries to squash her own worry, her own concern that the news about to be delivered to her is of the worse kind.

She sweeps into the parlor and her skirt rustles about her as she pauses just inside the room, pauses at the quaint and picturesque sight playing out in front of her. Eleanor and Cyrus are seated together on the same settee, side by side with Aaron contently and happily squished between them. The little boy is smiling as his mother rubs his back affectionately, laughing as his father reads him a story in an animated voice.

Blair blinks back her tears, blinks back her amazement because at no time in her life can she ever remember being the child lovingly squished between two parents, lovingly touched and tickled and read to by her mother and her father. It was always the later and never the former, never the two together.

"Bonjour Blair!"

Aaron's excited greeting snags the attention of his parents and causes them to offer their own salutations in greeting. Blair smiles as she responds to Aaron in French and turns her attention to her mother to ask why her attention was demanded so unceremoniously and forcefully.

"How was your ride with Lord Beaton?"

Blair hesitates as she searches for the right adjective to describe the event. Uncomfortable? Forced? Unnecessary? Unwanted? And then she settles for a simple "fine", which only causes the bright light in her mother's eyes to grow brighter in excitement and the sense of dread to grow in the pit of Blair's stomach.

Cyrus gestures for her to sit, offers to ring for more tea so she too may have some refreshments during his reading. Blair begs to be excused claiming to need a moment to change, claiming not to want to interrupt their moment as a family. The smile on Cyrus' face falters with her declaration and even Eleanor looks pained at the way Blair has delineated herself outside of the scene, but Blair pushes forward in her determination to escape and starts to extract herself from the situation.

Her movements are cut short by the presence of their butler, Bertram, in the doorway. The older man's loyalty to the Rose family is matched only by his deep and abiding affection for Aaron, and the youngest person in the room greets him with just as much excitement as he greeted his sister. The twitch of Bertram's lips deceives him through his stoic expression, through his monosyllabic announcement that a package was just delivered for Mrs. Grimaldi.

The package is offered to her on a silver tray, and Blair picks it up cautiously as curious eyes settle on the carefully wrapped packaged in her hand. She looks for a name or a note from the sender as she turns the package over in her hands, and she glances up to ask Bertram who delivered the gift when her mother interrupts to feed her own curiosity.

"Open it, Blair," Eleanor says as she shits her weight and leans forward in eager anticipation. "There will be a card inside."

Blair tears open the wrappings until her fingers touch the plush cover of a jeweler's case, until a foreboding suspicion settles over her. Dorota steps forward, offers to take the torn wrappings out of Blair's hands, and forces Blair to draw the black velvet case completely out of its wrappings.

She stares at the case, almost afraid to open it least her suspicion be correct. She steels herself, prepares her face to betray nothing to all those in the room watching her, and then opens the jeweler's case.

Instead, on a bed of bright pink, is nestled a silver necklace. The strand is interrupted in a pattern of diamonds leading to a heart nestled in the middle, to a cluster of diamonds cut very simply to showcase their beauty. Her fingers automatically reach out to touch them gems, to skirt along the appealing beauty laid out before her. And then when her fingers reach the center, when her fingers reach the heart, she drops her hand back to her side as if she has been burnt.

Her mother looks up from the packaged draped across her lap she had demanded from Dorota, abandons her search for a card to stare at her daughter.

"There is no card," Eleanor says in surprise. "Do you know who sent it?"

"We must send it back," Blair replies forcefully. She offers her mother no explanation, looks to her lady's maid to sweep in and save Blair from herself, save her from her wish to touch it, to run her fingers along the smooth strands.

Dorota registers the look immediately, moves forward to save Blair from herself, to save her from wish to feel it around her neck. The maid takes the velvet box in her hands but fails to hold back the sharp intake of her breath when her suspicions are confirmed at the sight of the necklace nestled amongst pink fabric.

"Dorota, please arrange to have it returned."

"But, Blair," Cyrus interrupts. "If there is no card, then we cannot be sure who sent it. Who do we return it to?"

"It's from Lord Beaton," Eleanor replies knowingly as she snatches the box out of Dorota's hands, as she opens the present to see the majestic piece inside. Her husband shifts for a closer look, and Eleanor moves it out of the way when tiny hands reach out to touch the shiny piece inside.

A smile crosses her face, but drops immediately when Blair shakes her head, takes back the present, and informs them all of the sender's identity. Only Cyrus seems happy at the confession, at Blair's demand that Bertram call for a carriage to take her to return the present.

"Is that the same man who played music for Blair?" Aaron questions as his sister sweeps out of the room, as Dorota and Bertram follow after her and leave Aaron alone with his parents once more. The little boy looks up from his mother to his father, and Eleanor's eyebrows rise in surprise at Aaron's question.

"That would be him," Cyrus replies with a smile. He picks up the abandoned book in his lap, ignores the way Eleanor looks at him with sharp eyes demanding answers, and begins to read after a few final words on the subject. "Your daughter is an intelligent woman, my dear. She knows what is best to be done about this."

* * *

Vanya calls after her, worries audibly that this intrusion will cost him his job as he trails behind the intruder. The lady's maid accompanying her glances over her should to look at him, shrugs at his concern that Vanya feels neither assured nor comforted. The intruder reaches her destination, acts as though she owns the place when she swings open the door so it violently hits the wall.

"You cannot send me this."

The icy tone of her voice causes Vanya to flinch, causes Vanya to stammer out an apology as his employer glances up from the papers spread across his desk to look at the source of the outburst. Her whole body strums in fiery anger, and the heat causes everything about her to glow. He moves to stand, pushes back his chair, and appraises her entire body with his eyes without reply, without a cursory greeting.

"Vanya, leave us," he instructs firmly. The butler stops speaking, backs out of the room without a second glance because he is used to such treatment. The lady's maid, however, is not, and her eyes widen in surprise and protestations begin forming on her lips when Blair echoes the same instruction for Dorota to follow.

"Go, Dorota."

The maid nods, beings to exit the room in the same fashion as the butler when she pauses at the door. Her hand curls about the knob, and her sharp eyes train on her employer as a presentiment rises to the forefront of her mind.

"God always watching, Miss Blair."

The door slams behind Dorota, punctuating her harsh rebuttal to what might occur out of her sight behind closed doors. Blair chooses to ignore her impertinence, reminds herself to deal with it later as her steely gaze settles on the remaining man in the room.

"Hello Miss Waldorf," he greets with a mockingly low bow, with unnecessary formality to remind her of her inappropriateness of her actions. She bristles at his words, narrows her eyes even further in question.

"I thought you were going to call me Mrs. Grimaldi," she replies. "Is that not what your note said?"

"Was there a note attached? I don't recall adding one."

"No, you cad. I'm speaking of your first note. The one you sent with the peonies."

"Ah," Chuck replies with an understanding nod. He moves around the desk, moves to stand between it and her. The close proximity should force her to move backwards, to move away from him, and yet she finds that she cannot move away from the thrill of excitement, from the flare of insidious attraction. "I've changed my mind. I find Grimaldi leaves a grotesque taste in my mouth."

"And I find Bass leaves a grotesque taste in mine, but we all have our crosses to bear."

"Now you and I both know that's not true."

The confident way he speaks, the lecherous undertone of his words firm her resolve to return the unwanted present and leave before anything else happens between them. Before she can lose herself in the depth of his eyes and melodic words once more.

"I've come to return this," she replies as she trusts the jeweler's case towards him. He makes no move to take it from her, makes no move to accept the reason for her interruption of his day. "You cannot send me this."

"There you go again equating cannot with should not," he says with a shake of his head, with a mocking tone. "Besides, this was a gift and someone once told me you cannot return gifts between friends."

"Is that what we are? Friends?" She questions. Yet she does not afford him the opportunity to answer because she does not want to hear his answer. But, more likely, because she does not know how she wants him to answer. "I've returned this before. And you didn't refuse to accept it then."

"Did you really think I'd send that back to you in France? Did you honestly believe I'd allow you to wear that to another man's bed?"

Any other woman's jaw would have dropped open in disbelief, but she finds that she has no idea how to respond. She had returned the necklace to him after accepting Louis' proposal, sent it back to him in Dorota's care before leaving for France because she could not stomach the idea of wearing the previously unworn present to her marriage bed.

The box slides out of her hands with a gentle tug from his. He sets it on the edge of his desk, lifts the necklace from the box, and moves to drape it across her chest and fasten it about her throat. She fights the thoughts of how well the gift feels about her throat, of how it makes her feel.

"Something this beautiful deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty."

His words from her birthday nearly six years ago echo in her head so loudly she is unsure if he has said them again. The ultimate temptation to play his game once more calls out to her; supported by the brush of his fingers against the skin of her neck and his hot breath against her ear.

"What do you expect to gain by this?"

He pauses, but whether he is considering his answer or merely stretching her nerves tight, she cannot tell as she waits. Last time she had not asked him this question, had been far too busy dealing with the outcome of losing her position and losing herself to his caressing kisses to care. And now – older and wiser – the words tumble out of her mouth.

"I would expect to receive whatever response of thanks you would naturally give to one who had so indulged you."

Her eyes flash and her temper flares. With a swish of her skirts, she swings around to face him and lifts her chin.

"Thanks I would give to whoever had so indulged me?"

She seizes on the knowledge of what occurred the last time she was alone in this room with him, seizes on the idea that he expects her to allow him to unlace the bodice of her dress and play this game again. He smiles, bats away her anger as he closes the distance between them with his prowling gait. Halting before her, he raises one hand and tangles his long fingers in the strains below her throat.

"A kiss for each diamond seems apropos," he murmurs. His voice deepens to its most dangerous purr, its most dangerous calling. His fingers release the heart along the necklace, and she gasps at the heat of his hand held trapped in the charm when it falls to hit her exposed skin. "But I would much rather—"

One long finger remains hooked around the strand of the necklace, and he traces it back down to the heart resting against her skin. Her chest tightens and she drags in a shuddering breath as her eyes briefly close. He shifts closer, and she senses rather than sees or hears his movements, feels him like a flame on her skin. His intoxicating warmth, the murmuring of his deep voice in her ear, and the feeling of his fingers tightly touching her skin couple together and she tips her face towards his in a flagrant invitation.

When his lips do not close over hers, when he does not force her to surrender, she takes matters into her own hands. Reaching up, she slides her fingers into his hair and boldly kisses him. Her hands touch his cheeks, frame his face, and hold it steady as she presses a flagrantly passionate kiss on him. He remains surprised for a second, but only for that as closes his arms about her and draws her to him.

Desire swells, claws at them both like some ravenous beast, and he fights against the desire to push her back onto the desk, to have all that he wants now. He has waited so long, and playing this game is killing him, driving him slowly, steadily mad. If he doesn't have her soon—

He pushes her away, leaves her stunned for a moment until embarrassment over her actions creep over her. He reaches out to touch her, and she shifts away from him as the heat of shame burns from her cheeks to her stomach.

"I told you I don't want kisses," he replies. "I would much rather you wear that the next time you decided to take a drive with Lord Beaton."

"What?" She stammers and stutters as confusion floods her. "Why?"

"Because that way you'll remember this," he replies. And then he presses his lips against hers once more; kisses her again so deeply she cannot think, cannot plan and can do nothing but open her mouth to him and allow a shivering sigh to escape. His lips leave hers to travel over her jaw, over the sensitive skin of her throat to that spot at its base where pulse races against a diamond of the necklace strung about her neck.

"Because that way you'll know that at the end of every ride, every dalliance you decide to participate in, you will always end up back here wearing nothing but this."


	7. Part Six

_Spotted: A certain widow desperately in the need of a little unburdening and a church all too willing to absolve mortal sin through the act of confession. Makes this gossip girl wonder if she is in the wrong business. After all, who doesn't love free flowing secrets? Of course, that would require one to avoid the devil incarnate waiting outside, and where's the fun in that?_

* * *

She pauses on the steps of the church to adjust the brim of her bonnet in order to better shield herself from the harsh glare. Her face burns with the heat of the sun, with the heat of God's judgment, and she closes her eyes at the sensation for a moment as she steadies herself, as she fortifies herself against the day.

"Well, this is the last place I'd expect to find you. And what is the going rate for absolution? Three Hail Mary's per kiss?"

Her eyes fly open to spy Chuck peering down at her from the window of his ornate carriage. She flushes with anger, flushes at the public nature of his questioning, and immediately begins to move away from his carriage down the street.

"Go away, Mister Bass. I practically have orders from God himself to stay away from you."

The carriage rambles down the road beside her; a difficult feat given their location and a testament to Arthur's driving skills. She keeps her face trained on the sidewalk in front of her, lifts her skirts in order to aid in her escape. A sense of smug satisfaction washes over when her when the distinctive sound of the carriage fades away, when it disappears from her peripheral vision because she never expected him to give up so—

She nearly yelps when a hand gently touches her elbow. She whirls on her heels, shies away from his touch, and glares up at him with eyes dancing in anger.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Her hissed question is ignored as their eyes connect, as he sees past the anger to the bloodshot eyes, red rims, and the glaze of unshed tears beneath. The teasing smirk falls from his face, and he raises his hand to touch her cheek. She turns her head in a reminder of where they are, and he drops his hand back to his side, flexes his fingers against the overwhelming need to touch her in that moment.

"You've been crying," he states.

She flinches not at the accusatory tone but at how perceptive he is, at how he sees past all her defenses. He drops his voice to a low murmur, to an octave that calls to hers. "You haven't done anything wrong, Blair. A few kisses—"

"I was here for my father," she interrupts, thinking quickly on her feet to come up with an answer that explains her visit to the church on a Thursday afternoon.

"Your father died in May."

Even before the words completely leave his mouth, he knows they are the wrong ones. She steps away from him, creates a physical space to match the emotional gulf between them.

"Some of us were actually mourn our father's death rather than celebrate our inheritances, Mister Bass."

Her words are icy and harsh, meant to be a dagger to his heart and a stake through this exchange. This time he recoils, straightens his spine, and steels himself against any sympathy he feels towards her. He extracts himself from the conversation and strides towards his carriage without a second glance in her direction.

* * *

News of her arrival at the van der Bilt's ball – only her second since abandoning her widow weeds – spreads like wildfire amongst the women she once made her debut with. They readily abandon the company of their mothers and husbands to join her company, to ask about life in Paris, about the fashions and the arts and – in a rather suggestive tone she chose to ignore – the merits of French men over the homegrown variety.

Although now changed from young girls with doe-eyed innocence into wives and mothers with all the knowledge accompanying the role, those twittering about her still hold her opinion on acceptable dress and behavior as the final verdict and move unconfidently in her presence. Blair, in return, owns the stage as she embellishes her answers with personal antidotes, as she points out the sophistication her dress in comparison to theirs, as she ignores the way Penelope's eyes narrow in suspicion with every answer.

The opening bars, the opening notes float melodically about the room in an enticement for all to join the set, ending the enchantment her words held over the small but eager band of listeners clustered around her. Husbands come to collect wives, but the looming presence behind her causes any man who dares come collect her to spinelessly give way, to slink off in search of another partner for the set forming.

She knows it is him even before he steps out of the shadow, even before he outstretches his hand and silently entrenches her to dance with him. Only one man would insist upon acting as though he has some claim to the position beside her.

She slips her hand into his, allows him to guide her out onto the dance floor after only a brief moment of hesitation. A master of the waltz, he presses his legs against hers through the fabric of his skirt, guides her about the room with an intoxicating air. Her fingers squeeze those holding hers, and she struggles to find the right words as his fingers flex against her back.

"Your father loved and adored you. Mine always made it clear that he did not so excuse me if I do not spend my time crying over him in church."

"Chuck," she murmurs. And then she pauses, gripped by hesitation as she remembers just how many eyes are watching. "Mister Bass."

An excellent dancer and able to match him for every step, she falters through the first turn under the crushing weight of the far greater matters on her mind. He uses her stumble to his advantage and draws her as close as he wishes so their thighs brush and their hips meet, knowing every touch affects her as much as it affects him.

"If a few kisses send you to the nearest church in search of absolution, then I wonder what you would do I told you of the fantasies I have of you. Would you marry Beaton is I told you that I fantasize about your hair? How it looks hanging loose and flowing about you? Of course, in my dreams, you wear nothing else but my necklace."

Blair's eyes widen as a blush rises to her cheeks, as anger mounts over the public nature of his comments. His arm about her waist keeps her upright, and the press of his thighs against hers emphasizes every word as he effortless whirls her through each turn. The heart-shaped charm against her neck burns her, makes her regret ever choosing to wear it. She had known he would be here and had chosen to wear the necklace despite Dorota's protests as an apology of sorts for what she had said to him outside the church.

"How many prayers do you think you would have to make then? I image the church was quite displeased over the kisses you lavished upon—"

She cuts him off, silences him with the harshness of her tone as she rejects his current and previous suggestion. And yet she continues to be a master of subterfuge, manages to harness the anger she feels in a way that gives nothing away to those dancing about them.

"It wasn't the ki—what occurred between us over the necklace that sent me to church. I go once a week in addition to attending services on Sundays with my mother and Cyrus."

"To pray for your father," he fills in immediately. The haughty way he speaks, the way he acts as though he knows everything angers her.

"No. I pray for another."

Her chest tightens unbearably at even the smallest confession of information, and a peculiar sensitivity affects her skin over the way he is looking at her. She holds his gaze for a moment more before glancing over his shoulder to watch the other couples twirling about the room. They complete one revolution of the large ballroom before he speaks, before her attention is drawn back to the man in whose arms she is.

"You pray for Grimaldi's soul?"

She could seize the moment and speaks the words that will immediately cause him to release her, but the lie becomes lodged in her throat as the words she spoke earlier become a roar in her ears.

_For I have lied. For I have killed. For I have sinned_.

"No," she replies calmly. "I pray for mine."

The musicians come to her aid, ending the waltz with a dramatic flourish. With a smile, with expert showmanship, she steps out of his arms and sweeps into an elaborate curtsy to forces him to follow her example and sweep into a low bow before helping to raise her up.

Blair turns from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part ways to rejoin the many guests eager to have a word. But Chuck's fingers lock about her hand and he steps close, comes to stand beside and behind her. His murmured words brush against her ear in such a close proximity that Blair can see her mother's eyes raise in alarm as a shiver streaks down her spine.

"Oh, no, Miss Waldorf – our dance has just begun."

And then he releases her fingers, lets her go so she stands on shaky knees. Pride keeps her upright, though, and she manages to walk across the room without giving herself away. Lord Beaton steps towards her, but she ignores him as he begins to form an invitation to dance and instead focuses on finding a place within the van der Bilt's estate where she can again fall on her knees and ask for forgiveness.

* * *

The French door separating her from the party opens with a loud creak, and she turns her head to see who might be intruding upon her moment of solitude. The trespasser surprises her, and she hastily turns her head forward so he cannot see the tears in her eyes.

"Blair," he begins before correcting himself and employing her married name. The cold air nips at his face as he moves through the closed portion of the van der Bilt estate, and he pulls off his coat to drape about her shoulders because he was raised to be a gentleman. "What are you doing out here?"

"I don't know," she replies. He places the coat about her shoulders in an attempt to offer her a modicum of comfort given the immense darkness of the deserted room before coming to stand beside her. "Do you remember the first time you brought me here? We were like—"

He smiles at the memory, fills in the age for her as the moment comes rushing back to him. Twelve and thirteen, they had snuck downstairs to watch those gathered below. Serena and Chuck soon disappeared in search of alcohol and amusement, but they hid behind the French doors and observed the debutantes on display, the men asking them to dance, and the mothers making and unmaking a flurry of matches behind the scenes.

Blair watched in awe that night, talked about how she was going to crème de la crème of the debutantes that season. And he had swept into a bow, asked her to dance with him in the part of the house closed for the season, and agreed at every turn over how perfect their future would be together because that was the plan, that was the expectation.

"What happened? When did everything get so screwed up? This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel so…"

Although he nods his head at her question, he has the swallow back the thickness in his throat over the way her voice breaks. She sounds so utterly heartbroken, so unlike the Blair he had known as a child. She wavers as she speaks; almost as though she is too afraid to cry and too afraid not to.

"Lost," he fills in because he knows, because he understands. She nods her head at the adjective and watches curiously as he takes a seat beside her. "Do you remember how you used to make us read your favorite stories over and over again? It used to drive me crazy."

"Is this supposed to comfort me?"

"Well, I finally asked you why you like reading books you've already read, and remember what you said?"

"I like knowing how things are going to turnout."

"Exactly," he says before looking down at the floor and taking a moment to find the right words to comfort her. She cuts off his thoughts, though, as her bitterness grows exponentially in the quiet moment.

"I knew how things were going to turnout for us until you—"

"Until I married Jenny," he fills in immediately. Blair sighs at the reminders of lost dreams, moves to shrug off Nate's coat and shove it into his hands with a dramatic flourish. "Growing up, I never knew who I was supposed to be so I spent all my time trying to be the person my father and grandfather wanted me to be, my mother and your mother wanted us to be."

The solemnness of his voice gives her pause, and she finds herself sinking back down to sit beside him. His next words cause her heart to contract and her eyes to flutter shut to keep the tears from falling as she takes steadying breaths.

"When your father died, I finally realized you cannot fight against who you are," he says. "Your father had for so long, and I saw what the truth did to him, to you. I couldn't continue to lie to everyone and pretend I would be a good husband to you."

The mention of her father as the source of his decision to end everything between them confounds her, and she shifts away from him, looks at him with a bewildered look on her face

"So you allowed Jenny to willingly compromise you?"

"No," he quickly corrects. "She and I – I don't know how to describe it, but the only time I ever feel alive is when—"

"You didn't – it wasn't her idea? She didn't force you to?"

"I asked Chuck to—"

He cuts himself off before she has the opportunity and watches as she shakes her head against his words. She had cast him as the victim – a stupid, gullible victim but a victim none the less. She hadn't wanted to see him after the news broke, and her mother had supported her by sending him away when he came to call, to explain. From that day on she had cast Jenny Humphrey as the villain when, in fact, they were both equally guilty.

"You asked Chuck to find you? You wanted to be caught?"

"You didn't know," he replies in a statement rather than a question. Her stomach flips at the tone. She shakes her head, tries to shake off the suggestion that he planned to be caught, that he wanted to be caught with Jenny. She shrugs off his coat, moves to thrust it towards him as she stands when the light hits the necklace about her throat, causing the diamonds the sparkle brilliantly despite the low-light conditions.

Nate's eyes widen in surprise at the recognition of the necklace, and his brain races to construct the events from five years ago in a new light. He pieces together the events of that night, at the way he had been instructed to find Chuck in his study by a cluster of debutantes. He was unsurprised to find Chuck alone with a woman, but had been surprised by the tone of Chuck's voice as he told his best friend to leave. Chuck was always boisterous about his conquests, but he had been so quick to pull the masked woman to him and protect her identity.

And now his mother's necklace hangs about Blair's neck. The same necklace he had once shown Nate when they were but boys in the nursery and explained that his mother said he was only to give this to the woman he loved.

"It was you," Nate says in disbelief as he jumps to his feet, as he calls after Blair before she can leave the room. The tone of his voice causes the anger to melt off of Blair's face, causes the fear that had been fueling her to subside for just a brief moment. "That night as the masquerade ball when I barged in on Chuck with – it was you."

"You didn't know?" Blair questions in amazement. She had been so sure that Nate had seen her and been the one to protect her against those who would brag of their conquest, against those who would spread the gossip so far that her reputation would never recover. "But how could you not? You saw me at the party beforehand. You knew what I was wearing."

"No," Nate quickly replies. "I mean, I did see you, but you know I have never been much for fashion."

If he thinks his lighthearted humor will make her feel better, it fails to do so. All she can do is swallow the information, swallow the rebuttal. Her head spins. She swallows the information, swallows the rebuttal. Her head spins. She still has not gotten her mind around the idea that Nate wanted Jenny rather than her, that Nate had orchestrated her downfall.

"Did he ask you to find us? In exchange for finding you, he'd get me in the same position and you'd—"

"No. He never asked. He never even hinted at the idea," Nate adamantly replies. And then he laughs, offers Blair a twisted smile over how wrong she is.

"No wonder he ran away and became angry when I suggested he find another conquest and stop moping over the one from the masquerade. He gave you that necklace – his mother's heart, his heart – and you married another man."


	8. Part Seven

**Author's Note: **Two chapters ago, a guest reviewer asked a slew of questions about whether or not Chuck and Blair have only a sexual thing going on. I answered on my tumblr since I was unable to do so here and then, in my haste to post the last chapter, forgot to state that I had done so. The revelation about necklace may have belayed your fears, but there are many more moments in earlier chapters I pointed out that show Chuck wants more than just a dalliance with Blair. I hope you'll check it out. Also, another guest reviewer asked if Chuck and Blair have had sex. No, the extent of how far they have gone can be seen in the prologue.

* * *

_Spotted: Chuck Bass losing something no one knew he had – his heart._

* * *

She watches him for a moment, watches the way his fingers flex around the glass of amber liquid almost as though he's debating whether to partake or not. He seems almost startled when Vanya announces her, and he turns his head to watch her with a forlorn look on his face that leaves her unsure. The butler is dismissed with a flick of his wrist, leaving them alone to watch and wait for the other to speak.

She hesitates because she doesn't know what to say, because her mouth feels dry and cottony and she's choking on the question marks. Her fingers rise to trace the medallion lying against the skin of her chest, rise to trace just as his fingers trace the rim of his glass.

"This was your mother's."

She expects him to be surprised that she knows, and maybe he actually is. His face is unreadable – partially obscured by the shadows – and if she could get closer, if she could just look into his eyes, then maybe she would know the truth.

"Yes."

Her eyes close at his reply, close as the weight of the significance tightens its grip around her. Her memories of Evelyn Bass are hazy at best, and she wonders if is the woman with his eyes and his laugh are merely a figment of her imagination. The memory of Evelyn's funeral, of sitting in the pew next to Chuck and holding his hand because it felt like the right thing to do is sharper. She still had her childhood innocence, couldn't understand the pain Chuck was going through after losing his only affectionate and loving parent.

When she died, when he lost the woman he adored, Chuck morphed into something composed of sharp angles and hardness, of alcohol and exotic temptations brought back from the Orient. His father followed down the same path, turned the home he built and named Evelyn's Palace after his wife into something unrecognizable.

Into this place of darkness devoid of the warmth and affection his wife – the one that followed him from the countryside yet still managed to capture the adoration of the upper echelon of society – had been known for. Into just the Palace; into a place with a nearly treasonable name that only survived because of the entertainment it offered the monarch.

"Why did you give this to me?"

She needs the truth, needs his words and not the ones currently ringing in her head. If Nate is right, if Chuck gave her this necklace for any other reason than trying to entice her into bed, she needs to know.

Because his reputation precedes him. Because half the girls she made her debut with fell for his charms and fell into his bed at the risk to their reputations and prospects. Only hushed up scandals and hasty alliances had saved them. And she had been saved in the same manner – a hasty marriage to Louis and a relocation to France before the scandal could leak.

Or so she had thought, so she had believed until now because the only one who saved her was Chuck. No one knew of her dalliance, and the one person who did kept it a secret from even his best friend for five years.

"Nate said it's because you lo—"

"And what happens if I say it?"

Her eyebrows knit in confusion, and the whole room seems to be cloak in the dark tone echoing in his voice. And she wonders how and when he managed to move across the room without her noticing because all of the sudden his glass is abandoned across the room and he's standing in front of her. His hand reaches out to touch her jaw, to cup her cheek so she has no choice but to look at him.

"If I say three words, eight letters, would you stay?"

It takes her just a moment to realize what he is referring to, to realize the correct combination of three words and eight letters. And the realization sends a jolt through her because it's been five years – closer to six – since her father's funeral and Nate's betrayal and her mother's remarriage, since she accepted a ride in his carriage and kissed him just because she wanted to. Because she wanted to feel alive. Because she wanted to know what it feels like to be wanted.

And all this time, he's just been here. And the idea seems ludicrous because he's Chuck Bass. Because casting him as a villain is far easier than trying to see past his defenses, peel back the layers, and understand all his complexities.

His fingers trace her jaw in temptation, pulling her back to the here and the now. All the questions swim in her mind, fight for dominance as she pieces together that which she knows.

"It's been five years, Chuck" she breathes out quickly, focusing on understanding rather than answering his question. "Why—"

"Because in the face of true love, you don't give up," he replies softly as his fingers trace and stroke and caress. Her breath catches her in throat, and her eyes lock with his to see another layer peel back. "Even if the object of your affection is begging you to."

He waits through the pause, waits as the words register within her heart before acting and thus he is caught off guard when she moves forward, closes the distance between them, and kisses him. His lips curve beneath hers softly for just a moment before firming, before taking control. His arms close around her, drag her closer as his tongue fills her mouth. She lifts her hands to touch the nape of his neck, to cup his check and stroke gently.

As their mouths merge, as the fire rekindles between them, she burns with the knowledge of all that they can share. His hunger is there – real and potent and no longer disguised behind innuendos and misunderstandings. And it is all hers for the taking should she ever stop denying that this is where she wants, where she needs to be.

She meets him, taunts and duels him as she presses herself closer and encourages him to tighten his arms about her. His hand moves on her back then slides lower over the indentation of her waist to her hips to the swell of her bottom. She greedily grasps at every kiss, at every sensation and tries to evoke more, more, more.

Chuck reads her eagerness, sighs in relief that she finally understands him and his needs and his wants. He reaches for her hips, draws her even closer towards him before greedily taking her mouth again. He raises his hands, runs them down her back until his fingers find the lace of her gown and loosen them easily.

He slides his hands around to close about her breasts, and she shudders and moans against his mouth. Her hands greedily, hungrily grasp at his hair, his shoulders, and her nails dig into his skin even through the thickness of his shirt and coat.

His fingers ease aside the fine fabric of her bodice to reach within, to cup her breast through the think silk of her chemise. Her breath hitches, and he pauses against her lips, waits for her to tell him to stop. But when no words come, when no objections pass through her lips, he reaches for the ribbon bows securing her chemise, tugs until they unravel. He boldly draws the thin layer of fabric down and sets his palm to her breast, sets his skin to her naked flesh.

Reverently cupping her breast in his hand, he draws back his head, breaks the kiss, and looks down. Still as perfect as he remembers. He smiles at the thought, at the memory as she closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. And then his lips touch just the top of her skin, his breath becomes warm against her heated skin, and her fingers tighten involuntarily against his shoulders.

"Chuck," she whimpers. He bends his head to her other breast, lavishes it with the same amount of attention.

"I want you," he replies as his lips press against her skin

His words need no more embellishment; the truth rings in her ears, strums through her body, and lays against her collarbone. Her heart pounds under her skin, urges her to take from him, and yet something inside her screams for her to draw back, to resist and say no. He seems to sense her decision even before she makes it, speaks quickly and urgently and almost desperately as he tries to silence the part of her insisting she deny him.

"We can be married whenever you want," he promises. "But for God's sake, Blair, don't—"

His words crash over her with an icy wave that drowns out all desire. Panic flares within her, grips her so tightly that she jerks back out of his hold.

"What did you say?"

"You know where we've been heading," he replies as his eyes fixate on her face, on her eyes. He searches for understanding, searches even as she stiffens and hardens against him. "I want to make love with you."

"No, you want to marry me."

The correction feels more like an accusation, like a slap to the face that leaves him disoriented. He stares at her for a moment; feels his face set and his eyes narrow instinctively.

"I want – and intend – to do both. One once. The other frequently."

"Well, you can have fun playing with yourself because I don't intend to marry again," she replies as her eyes narrow. She reaches for her chemise, yanks it up until her breasts disappear again from his view. He bites his tongue, forces himself to think as she sets about retying the straps of her chemise.

He knows she's upset. He told himself to back off, told himself it would not be wise to rush her because the goal of this game is too important, too valuable to risk. But then she was pressing herself against him, offering him an opportunity to make his case, and laces are so easily loosened.

Abruptly, she turns around and presents him with her back. And suddenly the scene looks a lot like one five years ago; he can feel her slipping through his fingers once more. He grabs her lacings and yanks them up, tugs harshly as frustration and exasperation sets in.

"Just answer me this," he says as he keeps his eyes on the laces as he tightens and then ties them. "If you know about the necklace, if you know our history, then why is my mentioning marriage such a shock to you? What did you think what's been developing between us would lead to?"

And that's the problem. Because she knows the inevitability of what will occur if she goes upstairs with him tonight, if she marries him tomorrow. There would be a child, a little baby that would be half of her and half of him. Her heart aches at the thought, her arms ache at the memory, and she can't lead him to that hell. Her damnation is her own, and she will not share it with anyone, especially not with him.

"An affair?" He questions with a sardonic laugh. "Because I don't want an affair, Blair. I want to marry you."

She cannot hide her reaction to his words, to the threat with in them. She cannot hide from the instinctive, deeply ingrained panic that causes her to recoil, that causes her lungs to clamp tight as she turns and faces him.

Even through the clouding lens of anger, Chuck sees the fear deep with her eyes, sees the panic that dulls the sparkle within them. He fights the urge the grab her and reassure her, to pull her into his arms and sooth her because he doesn't understand, he doesn't know what makes the idea of marrying him so impalpable.

"I don't want to get married again. Not to you. Not to any man." The words quiver with emotion and fail to sound as, charged and resolute as she intends them to be. She dragged in a breath. "I should go. My mother – she'll worry."

She turns away from him, turns towards the door to make yet another hasty exit from this room. He calls after her, calls her name as she wrenches open the door and he moves towards her.

"No!" Blindly, she holds up a hand and bids him to stop in his relentless pursuit. "Please, just forget it. Forget all this."

* * *

"Blair, thank G—"

Cyrus' vexation increases at the look on her face, heightens as his concern for her well-being shifts from worrying over her disappearing act from the van der Bilt estate to worrying about the cause of the tearstains on her cheeks.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"He loves me," she chokes out because it's only partly a lie. He never said those three words, eight letters, but the sentiment was there. Hangs undeniably around her neck as his proposal – his indecent proposal – rings in her ears.

"Who? Mister Bass?" Cyrus questions, and then he smiles because Chuck and Blair haven't been as secretive as they believe themselves to be. "That's wonderful."

"No, it's not. It's horrible," she replies. Her voice breaks painfully as her anguish tears at and torments her. She collapses into his embrace, collapses under the weight of her desperation and pain. "I can't – I can't say it back. I can't be a masochist. Help me."

"You don't need help," he assures her as he hugs her, as he tries to soothe away her fears. "You just need time."

They break apart for just a second before she falls back into his embrace with a whimpers exclamation that it's not enough. And he hugs her tighter, catches sight of his wife standing on the stairs and watching them.

"It'll all be okay," Cyrus promises his stepdaughter as he runs his hand up and down her back. "You'll see, dear."


	9. Part Eight

_It appears our favorite widow has returned five years older, five times more the coward, and five times none the wiser. It also appears she has taken to her bed with a certain gentleman caller – one who has yet to reach the age of five._

* * *

The pelting of raindrops against the windows coupled with the gloomy and overcast sky peeking out from behind the curtains offers her little incentive to leave her bed. She curls up her body under the covers and drags the heaviest blanket up over her head to create her own little cocoon where the relentless beating of her heart drowns out all the other sounds she hears.

Blair presses her hand against her chest, presses down so as to relieve the ache or, better yet, make it stop beating all together. Her body freezes when the door to her room opens with a soft click, and she prepares the iciest tone she can muster to tell Dorota to leave her alone. But the bed dips and she hesitates, wonders who might be trying to join her in bed when the covers are pulled back and small hands sweep her hair out of her eyes.

And then she sees her little brother, sees his sweet smile fall to a frown and his eyes widen in questioning sadness. Aaron pushes the covers aside and shimmies his little body until he lays next to her with his head on the pillow and his face inches from hers.

Blair reaches over him, tugs the covers back over them, and pulls Aaron into her world, into her cocoon. This isn't how she thought it would be and these are not the tiny hands she thought would be touching her face, but today they will have to be her consolation prize.

"Mama says you're sad."

She closes her eyes, licks her lips before responding in the affirmative because she doesn't know how to deny the tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. A little hand reaches out to pat her face, and she tries to smile at his attempts to make her feel better as he strokes her hair and babbles on about his day, as he makes a joke or two that only a child could find funny. And maybe he almost has her laughing when the covers are peeled back and her mother and Dorota stand over her.

"Thank you, Aaron," Eleanor says as she plucks her son off the bed and places his feet on the floor. "Mrs. Hopkins is waiting with your favorite pastries downstairs."

Aaron runs out of the bedroom excitedly over the promise of treats, and Blair groans because she knows she has been outmaneuvered by a four-year-old. Or, more accurately, she has been out schemed by Dorota and her mother.

"Blair," Eleanor states, "you have been lying in this bed for four days. Time to get up and stop being an invalid."

Blair protests, tells her mother and Dorota to leave her alone because the promise of pastries isn't going to be enough to get her to do their bidding. Eleanor's eyes close in frustration, open only to notice the sparkle of diamonds draped across the dressing table.

"Dorota, go check on Aaron."

The lady's maid seems almost startled by the instruction, startled by the deviation in the plans for how to handle Miss Blair's meltdown. But she leaves the room with a departing curtsy, and Eleanor waits to hear the click of the door shutting firmly behind her. Her skirts rustle against the ground as she moves towards the dressing table, as she moves towards the necklace she has viewed from afar, and Blair's stomach lurches in her throat when her mother lifts the necklace off the table and holds it up to appraise in the gloomy light.

"I thought there was something familiar about this piece," Eleanor informs her daughter in an almost dreamy tone as though she is piecing together her memories. And then her voice cracks with judgment, with laughter over how foolish she has been. "I should have recognized it immediately. It's such a unique piece, and I'm sure nearly everyone in attendance at the van der Bilt's ball was able to identify it as Evelyn Bass'."

Her eyes dart across the room to meet Blair's, but the judgment her daughter expects to see is not there and it throws her for just a moment.

"And I would be correct in assuming Charles Bass gave this to you, no?"

"Well, I certainly did not steal it," Blair snaps as she sits up in bed, clutching the covers to her chest in the process.

Eleanor chooses not to dignify her daughter's comment with a response and instead concentrates on each aspect of the necklace, each diamond set inside the heart as she moves across the room and comes to sit on the bed beside her daughter. She gives the necklace one last look over and then holds it out her daughter. Blair hesitates, takes the necklace after a long pause, and tries not to look at it as her fingers enclose around the heart at the center of the stand.

"I heard you speaking with Cyrus the other night," Eleanor says. Panic flares within Blair's eyes, and Eleanor tries to change her tactic before her stubborn and evasive daughter slips away. She speaks softer this time, tries to cajole her daughter into conversing with her. "I should have come and stayed with you."

"What?"

"Your letter said you were alright, Aaron was just a baby, and Cyrus was ill, but I should have come. I could have—"

"Nothing," Blair interrupts because the idea her mother clings to is simply an allusion. After all, not even God saw fit to help her. "You could have done nothing."

"And neither could you, my dear," Eleanor replies softly. She reaches out to grasp Blair's hand and squeezes gently as she speaks. "And that's what I should have been there to tell you. Because what happened wasn't your fault, and I don't want to see you give up your whole life to this guilt."

Blair turns her head, turns away from Eleanor's gaze as though her movements will end the conversation. But Eleanor's other hand reaches out to cover the necklace currently clutched in Blair's first, reaches out to unfurl her fingers and trace the outline of the heart pressed into Blair's palm.

"You are so good with Aaron – far better than me – and he adores you. Each time I see the two of you together, I am reminded that you would make an amazing mother," Eleanor tells her daughter. And then she pauses in her tracings, pauses in her words to look up and watch tears crowd the corner of Blair's eyes and her daughter's features harden as she tells herself not to cry. "That you _are_ an amazing mother, Blair."

Her head begins to shake emphatically, violently against the pillow in a rejection of her mother's words because she loved her baby, begged and bartered for her child's soul. And she knows losing a child is common place; nearly every family of her acquaintance has lost at least one child to illness. But that tiny baby born too soon had no champions in the world save for its mother and, in the end, she failed.

"When I married your father, I was so nervous. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what. But when I married Cyrus, I was very calm. It was like everything was falling into place." Eleanor informs her daughter softly. "I knew something was wrong when you married Louis. You were so nervous but you kept saying that you wanted that marriage so I let it happen. I let you waste your chance at happiness but, Blair, I don't want you to waste your second. You should have been happy the first time around."

Eleanor nearly chokes on the words about to leave her mouth. She could never have imagined the day Charles Bass would proclaim anything but lust for a woman. The necklace speaks volumes, though. It is not the kind of family heirloom one would impart upon a conquest.

"If Mister Bass is serious in his attentions—"

Blair scoffs at her mother's suggestion because everything up until this point had been about Lord Beaton, and she impertinently asks her mother if a few diamonds were enough of an incentive to forgo pursuing a title.

"I'm not a fool, Blair, but you are one if you think I haven't noticed the way Charles Bass looks at you or the way you two seem to disappear together at every event," Eleanor snaps in reply. "I dismissed his suit because I thought he wasn't serious, and I only pushed Lord Beaton because I thought he could make you happy. I thought being a mother to his daughters would make you happy, and having a son with a title – well, your future would be secure."

"Is that all Aaron is to you?" Blair questions. She was raised knowing that her father needed a son and ended up with a daughter; that her role in life would be to provide her husband with an heir. But surely Aaron must mean more to her mother than financial security?

"I look at Aaron, and I see Cyrus," Eleanor replies. She pauses, smiles at her daughter for a moment before continuing. "And I'm not just referring to his lack of hair, but the way he makes me laugh and his smile and his excitement over even the smallest things. But, Blair, you know as well as I what can happen when—"

Blair closes her eyes at her mother's words because she knows full well what Eleanor is referring to. Louis' death had left her with nothing – no home, no money – and she was forced to return to living with her mother and stepfather because of it.

"Blair, you are my daughter no matter what you decide," Eleanor says as she moves to curl Blair's fingers back around the necklace. The heart presses back against her palm and burns her with the knowledge of all that it means, all that it offers. "I just want you to experience the same happiness I have found with Cyrus."

* * *

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, takes a deep steadying breathe before sweeping into the room. Her mother and Cyrus seem pleased to see her, although none of them seem quite as pleased as a certain blonde who comes sweeping across the room and gathers her best friend in a tender hug.

"I read in the _Spectator_ that you were unwell," Serena says in reference to the blurb in the gossip columns about her best friend. "I'm sorry I couldn't visit sooner. I was off in—"

"Santorini," Blair fills in rather accustomed to how the island facilitates Serena's disappearing acts. "I know."

She loops her arm with Serena's and uses the blonde as her escort during her turn about the room to appraise the guests at her mother's small gathering. All twenty or so eyes seem to follow her every movement, and she offers cool greetings to those who dare to stare at her for long.

"I see Mister Humphrey is not in attendance," Blair comments as she finishes her inventory of attendees. Serena rolls her eyes at the comment as she knows exactly what Blair is implying. Even with his sister's elevation in life, Daniel Humphrey is still not high-class enough to be invited to one of Lady Rose's soirées.

"He's working on a story," Serena replies. "He says it will be the story to finally launch his career."

"As a journalist or as a novelist?" Blair asks in derision because neither of those occupations are becoming for the man who wishes to marry Lady Serena van der Woodsen.

"As a writer," Serena says because, for her, there is no difference. Either way, she will support Dan in his endeavors. They've nearly completed their turn about the room, nearly reached the door from which Blair entered when the brunette stops, causing the blonde to lurch ungracefully in her movements.

"Wha—" Serena begins to ask when her eyes dart from Blair's panicked expression to the man currently standing in the doorway. Serena recognizes Chuck Bass almost immediately despite the fact that he looks more unkempt than usual. "Chuck, I wasn't sure if you were coming."

"Lady van der Woodsen," Chuck greets with a bow. His voice sounds constrained and distant as though he must force himself to greet the woman he has known for almost his entire life. "I had been resolved to decline, but Lord Rose endeavored me to come."

"Well, I'm happy you came," Serena replies. "Have you spoken with Eric? I know he wanted your advice on something."

Serena's voice trails off as she scans the room for her younger brother, and then she excuses herself to retrieve him from his conversation with Lord and Lady Archibald near the fireplace. Blair shifts anxiously as she waits for Chuck to greet her, as she forces herself to say something when she realizes he will not.

"I'm afraid my stepfather might have an ulterior motive, Mister Bass," Blair informs him. "He and my mother are quite the schemers."

"No doubt because of your teachings," Chuck replies with a smirk. But the smirk, the small smile melts away so quickly that she wonders if she imagined it. "But I shall be able to hold my own. I, too, have learned from the master. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Grimaldi, I believe we have said all the pleasantries required of us."

She murmurs her dismissal, and she can feel the heat of her mother and her stepfather's eyes upon her as she watches Chuck move across the room to join Cyrus's small gathering. No more words pass between them the rest of the night. Blair finds herself seated near her mother with Chuck on the far side of the table. She tells herself that his cool detachment is for the best, tells herself not to care that he seems neither interested in talking to nor standing in her presence. But nothing weighs upon her more than the realization that Chuck referred to her as Mrs. Grimaldi once more.


	10. Part Nine

_On Monday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. On Tuesday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. On Wednesday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. This column must be delivered to the printer by Wednesday evening, but does anyone think this author would be lacking in journalistic integrity if the following were written on Wednesday night: On Thursday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. No? I thought not._

* * *

The flames flicker as her arm passes over them, as the cool air of the drafty building is stirred by the movement. She lights a small candle in the back, whispers the name of its intended, and repeats the process as she lights the second candle. She closes her eyes and tries to take a deep breath, tries to steady herself, but the sound of footsteps behind her interrupts her revere.

She glances over her shoulder and offers the man a small, tight smile in greeting. He watches her curiously yet waits patiently for her to turn around, for her to come to him. She moves away from the candles and moves towards the back of the building, towards the small room where she can confess her sins and offer her penitence. "I fear the devil on my shoulder," she confesses softly when the screen of anonymity has fallen between them. He questions the form her temptation, her devil has taken – pride, gluttony, lust – yet her answer is not the one he's expecting.

"My mother," she informs him. "I know the commandments – honor thy father and thy mother – but to do that, I would have to break my promise to God."

She dips her head, hoovers closer to the screen as she awaits the verdict and a long moment of silence passes as the priest ponders the information she offers him. And then he presses for more, questions her over her mother's wishes, but she dodges and evades his questioning by offering him another detail.

"I saw Chuck at a party the other night."

"That must have been difficult," the priest replies softly.

"He called me by my married name, and he – he danced with Miss Coupeau," she informs him. She pauses, swallows the lump in her throat at the memory, at the thoughts that plagued her all night. "Father Smythe, he's going to marry someone else."

"Greed is a sin," the priest reminds her pointedly. "Keeping him, denying him a family for your own selfish wants would go against God. And anything other than marriage—"

"I know," Blair replies, cutting him off in his condemnation of her previous actions. She takes a shaky breath and exhales her next few works in rapid succession. "But I'm growing weak. I'm afraid I might break."

"You'll find strength in prayer. Say five Hail Mary's and one Our Father."

* * *

The jostling of the carriage sends the head of her traveling companion lolling down her forearm, and she immediately reaches out to stop him from falling forward off the seat. Blair pulls him towards her, drapes her arm around his body, and curls him closer to her. Her actions earn her a smile from the man seated across from them, and she scowls at the way his eyes seem to twinkle at the scene.

"What?"

"You are quite good with him," her stepfather replies softly to her hissed question. "I'm afraid he's grown rather attached."

"I wouldn't be the first person to fall for his charm," she reminds Cyrus with a pointed look. This trip to the country was originally planned for just the two of them, but Aaron's perfected pout and his adamant demand to be included in the overnight visit had earned him a seat beside his sister.

"I suppose your mother and I spoil him terribly," Cyrus concedes. "But when my first wife – well, I never thought I would have a son."

Her stepfather pauses for a moment as he marvels over his reversal of fortunes. His wife had died after twenty years of marriage and no children to speak of and while he probably should have married a younger woman, he had married Eleanor simply because he had fallen in love and decided he was far too old to follow the edicts of society once more. Aaron had been a surprise, a blessing not only to the Rose lineage but to him and his wife.

"Nor did I think I would be fortunate to have a daughter like you, Blair."

Her eyes meet his and she cannot help the smile that settles on her face at his words. She looks away after a moment, sweeps her eyes out of the carriage to look at the passing scenery, but the smile remains even as she questions Cyrus about the purpose and destination of their visit.

"The property abutting Rosehaven was recently purchased, and the new owner invited us for a tour. Since your mother and I primarily live in town, I asked to extend the visit overnight to make the long journey more palatable."

She jostles side to side as the carriage turns off the main road, turns down the lane leading to the fork in the road where the driver will steer the horses towards the new owner's estate rather than Rosehaven. The last time she visited Cyrus' country estate was nearly six years ago in the window between her mother's marriage and her own. Yet the passing scenery seems almost familiar to her as the carriage reaches the fork and turns to the west rather than the east.

"The estate was in shambles from years of neglect, but the new owner has done extensive renovations to the property. It really is rather remarkable," Cyrus informs her. He watches her as the carriage turns and offers her a sweeping view of the estate, of the grand house with the pond in front. She leans towards the window in awe, leans so closely that Aaron's head rolls from her side to her lap and the little boy awakens with a fright. He sits up and rubs his eyes as his father smiles at him.

"Blair, Aaron, welcome to the Empire."

"The Empire?" Blair questions. "A rather grandiose name for a country estate, don't you think?"

Cyrus hums in reply, mumbles something about the name being fitting for the owner as the carriage travels closer and closer to the house. He laughs when his son climbs into his lap, when Aaron points out the ducklings paddling happily after their mother in the pond to his sister.

"Look, Blair! Canetons!"

She smiles at the little boy's excitement and praises him for his pronunciation as the carriage rambles closer towards their destination. The house is quite a magnificent sight, and the small army of maids, footmen, and servants stand at the ready to greet the visitors to the Empire. One of the footmen springs forward to wrench open the carriage door when it stops in front of the home, and Aaron scampers out of the carriage before his father or sister can stop him.

Cyrus climbs out after him, calls for the little boy to hold still as he runs towards the dog being restrained by the gameskeeper. The dog, the mutt holds still as Aaron tugs on his ears and pats his head, and Blair is momentarily distracted by the sight as her stepfather offers her his hand and helps her from the carriage.

"Aaron appears to have made a new friend," she murmurs to Cyrus as he tucks her arm under his and helps to steady her after the long journey.

"We shall have to check the carriage in the morning and make sure there aren't any canine stowaways," Cyrus replies with a soft laugh before turning his attention towards the front door and the man currently striding out to greet them. "Ah. Here is our host."

Blair tears her gaze away from her brother and allows her eyes to linger over the stately home for just a moment before her eyes settle on the man her stepfather is currently striding towards in greeting. She freezes and roots herself to the ground as her dueling emotions fight for dominance, as anger with Cyrus begins to overwhelm her.

Her only consolation is that their hostess seems just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. He bows to Lord Rose yet his eyes remain fixated on her and she finds she cannot break away to look elsewhere. Her stepfather calls her name, and she forces herself to walk towards them as the maids look on with curious expressions.

"You remember my son," Cyrus says with a gesture towards Aaron, who is still playing with the dog, followed by one towards Blair. "And my stepdaughter."

"Of course," their host replies with a short bow in greeting. "Mrs. Grimaldi."

"Mister Bass," she forces herself to say, forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat as she offers her own bobbing curtsey in greeting. His eyes continue to hold hers as unspoken questions and a torrent of emotions pass between them.

"The estate looks amazing," Cyrus says. The younger man nods his head stiffly as he murmurs his thanks. The footmen stepping forward to retrieve their bags seem to snap him out his revere, though, and he motions for the butler and the housekeeper to step forward for introductions before leading them into the home.

"Aaron," Cyrus calls after his son. "Leave the dog alone and come with us."

The little boy's shoulders sag dejectedly as he gives the dog one last pat on the head. He walks slowly towards the small party waiting for him, dragging his feet to prolong his separation from the animal. He takes his father's outstretched hand and grips it tightly as he begins to ask if the dog might come inside.

"Carver, let Monkey loose."

The gamekeeper follows the edicts of his employer and releases the leash holding to dog to his side. The dog trots towards his playmate and his owner, bypasses them both to reach the only woman in the small party. Aaron seems momentarily stunned at the rejection of his new friend, but his father holds him back from reaching out and tugging the dog towards him.

"Mrs. Grimaldi, meet my dog, Monkey," Chuck introduces formally. Blair reaches down to offer the dog her hand to sniff, feels his hot breath against her palm as she contemplates how well-behaved the dog is and how surprising it is to see Chuck derive companionship from an animal such as this.

"Blair," Cyrus interrupts. "I imagine you will want to freshen up before our tour of Mister Bass' estate, yes?"

Blair grasps onto the suggestion, seizes her means of escape for just a quiet moment to get over the shock of seeing him here. Chuck gestures for the housekeeper to show her to one of the available rooms, and Blair murmurs her thanks before slipping away from the party. The housekeeper leads Blair up the grand staircase towards the second floor, narrating a bit of their journey as she apologizes profusely for not being more prepared to welcome a lady to the Empire.

"I can send one of the maids up to assist you or assist you myself, if you prefer. I must have misunderstood Mister Bass when he said Lord Rose was coming to visit."

Blair cannot help but scoff at this comment because the so-called misunderstanding was an orchestration on the part of her stepfather and, undoubtedly, her mother. But she will not expose her family's secrets to a housekeeper she has only just met and so she dismisses the woman and waits for the click of the door shutting firmly behind her before allowing herself to break.

She sinks down onto the bed, presses her hand over her garments to her heart to still the frantic beating from within, and gives herself a moment to fall to and wallow in her emotions. Her surprise over seeing him, her anger with Cyrus over subjecting her to this, and her anguish over how she must continue to deny herself, deny him in order to save them both. She squeezes her eyes shut to lock away the tears and tells herself to move on, to grow stronger and stop being a greedy coward because this life is her cross to bear, her punishment to swallow.

Blair rises from the bed, pulls on the cord to call the maid, and heads to the dressing table to complete the necessary actions to wash away the grim and the dirt from her travels. The maid enters with the footman trailing behind with her trunk, and Blair allows herself to be striped and changed once he has left the room. Her coffered hair is reset; her fortitude against her emotions regained.

"Will there be anything else, ma'am?"

"Could you – which way to rejoin the party?"

The maid directs her towards the room where Cyrus, Chuck, and Aaron are waiting in a convoluted series of directions, and Blair curses the ill-informed maid when she finds herself in the music room rather than the parlor. She tries to remember if she was supposed to take a right or a left as she flounces on her heels, as she prepares to sweep out of the room but her eyes fall on the portrait hung above the pianoforte and all thoughts escape her.

The woman in the painting would be considered a standard beauty where it not for the way she appears to glow with happiness. Her eyes are not cast forward but rather on the young boy – tall, proud, and yet possessing a mischievous glint in his eyes – standing next to her. The same young boy who used to torment Blair relentlessly, who used to tell her jokes when everyone else in her life disappointed her.

And she could dwell on the memories of her childhood, on the memories of how he used to make her laugh through her tears where it not for necklace around the woman's neck in the portrait. And even though she's not wearing it, even though it's locked away in her bedroom at Rosewood, her skin still flushes and burns at the sight of the necklace with the heart-shaped trinket. She doesn't need an introduction or a tour to know who the woman in the painting is. Her brain can easily conjure up the name, and it is just about to slip past her lips when that unnecessary introduction is given.

"I see you found the portrait of my mother."

Her heart seizes and her stomach rolls at the fluttering she feels inside her growing stronger, at the sound of his voice. She does not turn, cannot bear to face him, but the proximity of their bodies decreases as he steps towards her. She waits expectantly for his touch yet she must smother her surprise when nothing comes.

"Your estate—" she begins, but her curiosity seizes her as she stares up at the portrait. "What happened to the Palace? To Evelyn's Palace?"

"I still own it," he replies solemnly in an attempt to mollify her concern. And yet he seems almost bemused by the question, bemused by the idea that she remembers the original name for his father's home. "But it is not the place it used to be. It hasn't been for a long time, and I cannot imagine living there with a fam—"

He cuts himself off and turns his head away to look out the window towards the intricately designed gardens sprawling out behind the home as he attempts to swallow the idea he must now give up on. She quips an eyebrow at his incomplete word, tries to piece together the rest of his answer, and her chest tightens painfully when she realizes what he was attempting to tell her.

"I suppose this is a much better home for you and Miss Cou—"

"No," he snaps, cutting her foolish words off because he danced with Miss Coupeau nearly three days ago and his feet still hurt from the ungraceful way she stomped her way across the dance floor. Because he purchased this estate long before he ever made Miss Coupeau's acquaintance.

If she is flustered by his interruption, however, she does not show it as the two stand together in silence, as they both ponder what to do or say next. She tries to recite a Hail Mary in her head, tries to draw strength from prayer as Father Smythe suggested, but she can feel her resolve to keep quiet and never speak of his proposal again slipping away as the eyes of his mother and her necklace burn her.

"It appears I failed to head your advice and fell victim to your stepfather's scheming," Chuck murmurs. "Unless…"

"Your mother died in childbirth, did she not?"

He jerks back at the question because he does not talk about his mother, because he does not follow her diverting tactic from his suggestion – his hope – that she orchestrated this surprise visit. And yet he finds himself confirming the answer she already knows. His mother had died in childbirth when he was six, and nothing in his life had been the same since.

"And the baby?"

"Yes," he answers in a tone flushed with anger because the answer is obvious, because he has no brothers or sisters or family to call his own.

"And you would want to do that to yourself?"

"What?"

"Marriage means children, and children mean—" She chokes on the sob and inadvertently cuts herself off. But the sob serves to break the dam, to loosen her tongue until the words slip out before she can catch them. "I had a baby."

His hand curls around her elbow, keeping her rooted in position and preventing her from crumpling or fleeing. She continues to refuse to look at him, but his fingers press against her chin and drag her gaze away from the painting to look at him. His eyes search out hers and his face falls immediately at the overwhelming amount of pain held within them.

"Losing my mother and their baby destroyed my father," he softly replies. "I would never want that for you. I only want you to be happy and – I'm sorry."

"It was Louis'," she reminds him because his hatred for all things Grimaldi burns strongly. But his concern and sorrow does not melt, does not change with the information.

"Of course it was," he replies because there is no other option, because Blair entered her marriage bed a virgin as far as the Church would be concerned. His hand trails down her arm until his fingers can lace with hers and squeeze them tightly. "I'm still sorry."

"Do you see now? Do you understand why I can't allow myself to marry you?"

"No," he confesses. The idea of losing Blair the way he lost his mother terrifies him, but he is more afraid of the idea of continuing to live without her. Her eyes flash dangerously at his confession and she moves to retract her fingers from his, but he holds her steady and refuses to let her flee once more. "You and I are inevitable, Miss Waldorf."

And maybe a week ago she would have paused at his use of her maiden name, would have focused on the meaning of such a greeting, but the devils on her shoulder are whispering their agreement to his words in her ears.

"Why?"

"Because we are the same. You have your religion and your prayers and I have my drinks and my whores and we both run as fast and as far as we possibly can. But I don't want to keep going like this. I don't want to be a pawn in your game. It's getting repetitious and old, and I don't want to play it anymore."


	11. Part Ten

"This isn't a game to me," she rebukes.

"Isn't it?" He questions, pressing his insistence forward. "You started this. You climbed into my carriage. You kissed me. I have spent the last five years of my life trying to move past you, but you – I see you and there's something inside my stomach. Fluttering."

"Butterflies?" She questions incredulously. Blair shifts her weight, feels his fingers tighten about hers instinctively to keep her from running. "And what happens when those butterflies die?"

He reminds her darkly of the passage of time, of the fact that things have not changed for him in the past five years, surprised she would ask him such a question given how long and how hard he has played this game with her. But she shakes her head at his words, shakes her head at his misunderstanding of what she means.

"What happens when you see the real me?" She questions.

"Haven't I already seen you?" He replies. If she expects his comments to be suggestive, the tone he employs does not carry such sentiments. Because, in his mind, he has seen the real Blair. He's seen Blair sobbing over her father's grave, ruling with an iron fist, freefalling over the way her life has spun outside her control, playing carefree with her brother, and half-naked and wanton against his desk.

"The thing that always fascinated me about you," he murmurs in an admiring tone. "The cool exterior. The fire below."

The fire below and the darkness that consumed her, that she has railed against all her life as she tries to protect herself and those she loves from further damage and suffering. And she cannot imagine why anyone would love those parts of her, but Chuck is standing in front of her claiming that he does and she feels slightly stunned at the knowledge. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, to stall until she can find the strength to send him away once more.

"The fire below will burn you," she warns.

Her voice cracks and she turns her head away to blink back tears as the memories and fears resurface to the forefront of her mind again. And he wants to reach out and comfort her, to tell her that he enjoys reveling in the darkness alongside her, but the last few months have made him weary and the words are spilling out of her mouth before he can intercept them.

"And when your heir is born with an open sore on his back and he dies alone because no one wants to hold something so revolting, you will—"

"I will mourn the loss of my son, and then I will hold his mother while she grieves and remind her that these tragedies happen," he interrupts. His tone is unflinching, unwavering in its rebuttal of her assumptions. "I will not allow anyone to blame her, to tell her she cursed my family because of who her father is and what he did. I will not stand by as she buries herself under the weight of God's wrath to try and cope. I will not send her away to the countryside and force her to lie about life in Paris. I will not have a marriage that is just for show."

"You—" she stammers as she grapples with the exposure of her secrets. "How did you—"

"That gossip columnist can write about my exploits all she wants," he replies as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bundle of papers. He holds them out to her and allows her to drop his hand in order to take the papers. "But I won't allow Dan Humphrey to make his name besmirching yours, to use your pain and suffering as his love letter to Serena."

She holds the papers in her hands and stares at the title written across the top in hurried script as though the writer could not slow down long enough to dot the 'I's and cross the 'T's. She raises her eyes, tries to entreat his for answers, but Chuck locks his jaw and calmly tells her that he has a party to host. He disappears before she can stop him, before she can call out for him to wait, and then she is left alone in the room where his mother, his younger self, and that necklace stare down at her. Blair sinks to the bench seat in front of the pianoforte, gingerly opens the bundle of papers, and begins to read.

The words are easily consumed as the story of her life is twisted and retold for her. And the tears begin to fall freely when her father's relationship with his valet, Roman, is exposed and his decision to take his own life is expressed in fifty-two words. Her tears mix with the words on the page quoting the midwife who attended her son's birth as referring to her as bringing the mark of the devil to the House of Grimaldi, and the ink is nearly washed away by the time she reaches the page detailing how Louis came to her house in a rainstorm to demand an annulment, caught a chill, and died without leaving a heir to secure his family's proud and noble lineage.

There is more – there is always more – but she tears the papers up angrily rather than continuing to read. They fall to pieces around her feet, fall to pieces in the same jagged design as her heart, and she grabs at her neck to try and cut off the choking sob that is rattling through her.

* * *

The soft sound of tiny feet and the scraping of nails against the floor cause her to frantically wipe away her tears, and she tries to mask her pain as her little brother climbs up onto the bench seat to her. The mutt places his head in her lap, and she strokes his soft fur rather than pushing him away. Her fingers brush against Aaron's, and she loops her free arm around her brother to pull him closer to her.

"I like it here," he whispers in their shared language. Blair tries to smile as she asks him why, as he prattles on and on about the duck pond and the big staircase that he slide down on his bottom and, of course, the dog. "Mister Bass said I can visit whenever I want. I think it's because he doesn't have anyone else to visit him."

The innocence behind his statement does not make his words any less true, any less impactful. But he's already marching onto his next topic as he picks up the scraps of paper spread around her and holds it up for examination. He wants to know what the scribbles mean, but she brushes off his question as she takes the paper from his hand and tells him not to waste his time with other peoples' lies.

"Where's your papa?" She questions instead, but the question is answered by Cyrus' appearance rather than Aaron's answer. The little boy is handed off to the housekeeper for watching over, although he manages to extra the promise of a treat before agreeing to leave his sister's side and he disappears from the room with a gleeful glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Did you send him in here?" Blair questions as Cyrus takes the now empty seat beside her. And it's all Cyrus can do not to laugh as he explains the decision to find Blair was all of Aaron's own doing and that with Blair as his sister, Eleanor as his mother, and Cyrus as his father, it will not be long before Aaron starts extracting more than just treats and trips the country from them all.

"I believe he wanted to find you to get you on his side for allowing him to keeping Monkey as his own pet. I already told him no, but he seems to have caught on to how weak I and Mister Bass are when it comes to you."

He laughs at his own joke; tries to lighten the damp and heavy mood, but his words fail to extract even a modicum of laughter for his stepdaughter. Cyrus sighs as he allows his eyes to dart around the room, to fall from the portrait hanging above the mantle to the shredded papers at his feet.

"You told Mister Bass about the baby," he says softly. Blair remains frozen in her seat with her eyes trained forward, but she manages to nod her head slowly in confirmation of Cyrus' words.

"Good," he replies. "You need to talk to someone other than Father Smyth. And if you won't talk to your mother or me, Serena or Dorota, then at least you have him."

"Do I?" She questions. "He said he's done. That he is tired of this repetitious go around between us."

"Yes, well, you have always been good at denial and seeing things the way you want to see them, my dear. It's high time someone call you out on it," Cyrus replies. Blair whips her head to glare at him, to rebuke his statements, but Cyrus is already pushing forward with his earnest questioning. "As for Mister Bass, did he make any mention about selling the Empire? Did he ask for his mother's necklace back?"

Blair shakes her head no, offering Cyrus the opportunity to raise his own hopes that maybe not all is lost between Chuck and his stepdaughter. But she crushes them once more when she reminds him that she made a promise to God, that she will not subject anyone else to her pain and darkness.

"We all have darkness and pain in our lives, Blair. What there is not enough of in our lives is happiness, of people choosing to accept the light that accompanies their darkness. It is okay to be scared. Between you and me, your mother terrifies me. But she has also made me the happiest I have ever been. And I would hate to see you deny yourself that pleasure because you think you don't deserve it."

Cyrus twists his body and hugs her dearly. His movements catch her off-guard and normally she spurns such contact, but this time she sinks gratefully into his embrace. He rubs her back soothingly and whispers his next few words into her ear softly.

"You lost a child. You have suffered dearly. But don't allow your life become repetitious in its unhappiness. Now is your turn to have the life your father, mother, and I always wanted for you."

She nods her head against his shoulder, allows his words to guide her shaky nerves. Cyrus attempts to break away after a long moment, but she pulls him tighter against her and allows her tears to fall freely onto his coat.

"Wait," she murmurs. "It's not enough."

And Cyrus laughs his deep, happy chuckle and squeezes her tighter as he tries to soothe and assure the closest thing he has to a daughter through the darkness and into the light.

* * *

The rolling landscape seems almost kissed by the setting sun, but her eyes are trained solely on the man standing at the shores of the pond with his dog sitting calmly alongside him. She half expected to find him in his study nursing a glass of scotch, but she can attest to the calming effect watching ducklings swim after their mother has on one's soul.

Monkey hears her first, flattens back his ears and stares cautiously as she approaches them. She pauses, half-expecting him to bark and send her away, and is surprised when he trots over towards her. She reaches down to scratch his ears and counts the ducklings swimming past his master as she tries to find the words to break the silence, to make him turn around and look at her.

"It's a—" she stutters, stammers as she gestures to the small lake, "very pleasant view."

"Indeed," the deep murmur replies. And yet he does not turn around, does not face her, and she falls back onto old habits as she points out the family of ducks floating past with their three ducklings. She waits with eyes trained on him rather than the ducklings, watches for movement on his part.

"Chuck," she whispers, hoping to send him over the edge and cause him to become so tense that he feels dizzy and has no choice but to turn and look at her. And when nothing comes, she circles to his right and reaches out to touch him, forcing him to finally turn and look at her.

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

Her face falters at his hissed question, at the way he speaks harshly, and she drops her hand back to her side. She halts, stands perfectly still with her gaze fixated on his face searching and studying. He drags in another breath, narrows his eyes, and manages to repeat his question.

"What do you think you're doing?"

And maybe in another life she would have leaned forward and kissed him, she would have tried to make him see her through touch. But the numerous times he tried to employ that upon her lead them nowhere, and she forces herself to confess exactly what she wants him to understand.

"What you want isn't safe, and—"

"You and I are never going to be safe," he interrupts. "To you, what I want is dangerous. But I've already done the most dangerous things I could – giving you my mother's necklace, watching your marry another man, and then – five years, Blair. And I'm still no closer to making you realize that safety is overrated."

"I don't want you to hurt the way I hurt. I'd rather die than do this to you."

"You've already done it to me, Blair. Denied me you. Denied me a family. And I tell myself to stand by you through the worst thing you've ever done, the darkest thought you've had because—"

He forces himself to swallow his feelings and turn away from her because he doesn't know if he can bear to hear her reject the last pieces he has to offer her. Because he's Chuck Bass and he's tired of being this man that chances after her.

"You say we can't be together. But you come to my house and kiss me. You get jealous when I dance with another woman," he states. "And every time I try to move on, you're right there acting like—"

"Acting like what?"

He sighs at her question because while he knows the answer, he doesn't know how to formulate it into words.

"Look down deep and tell if what you feel for me is real, or if it's just a game. If it's real, we'll figure it out. All of us. But if it's not, then please, Blair, just let me go."

"I—," she stutters.

He waits, watches her with his jaw locked and his eyes unblinking for her to finish her statement. No interruptions from him, no more half-answers from her.

"I have tried to assume the worst of you, to push you away and hide from the truth. I have tried to kill what exists between us, to run away from it. But I can't and I don't want to anymore."

"So what are you saying, Blair?"

"You said we'll figure it out together. And I need time to grieve, to know that what happened was not my fault and that God understands. But I too am tired of how repetitious and old this game has become, and I don't want to play it anymore. So if you can wait for me to accomplish what I need to do, if you can say three words, eight letters then I'm yours."

"You already have my necklace. You already know my answer," he reminds her. But she shakes her head and closes her eyes, and he knows that he must say it in order end this repetitious game of back and forth and capture the queen. "I love you, Blair."

"I love you, too."


	12. Part Eleven

_Spotted: Our reformed devil entering yet another church for Sunday services. These weekly visits are making this author long for the exploits of days gone by, but I suppose you cannot blame a man for falling in love. With whom you ask? That's one secret I'm not allowed to tell._

* * *

He shifts his weight; his hand twitching against the side of his leg. He stretches his legs out, brushes one against hers in the process, and he may pretend that the contact was merely accidentally, but the smirk on his lips betrays him. His exasperation is evident to her and, if it was proper, she would gladly reach out and hold his hand, squeeze it in thanks for how many of these conversations he has attended with her in the last few weeks.

The sermon continues in a monotonous drone of words that give him no comfort yet the way she sits beside him eyes sparkling, brain eagerly soaking up the words spoken gives him hope. There is no fire and brimstone in this speech, no fury and damnation. The delivery may not be particularly exciting, but the lack of excitement is disappointing to neither of them.

The sermon ends with a snap of the deliverer's book. The service ends with a series of prayers that easily roll of her tongue. And then he is standing, offering her his arm, and gingerly clutching her hand as he wraps it around his bicep. Her skirt swishes gracefully against the floor as he guides her down the aisle, out into the courtyard where the sun shines brightly and where the local gentry can endeavor to introduce themselves.

Eventually, the crowd disperses to return home, to return to their wayward ways without concern until next Sunday when they return seeking penitence for their sins. She slips away from him and moves towards the small party clustered around the front door.

"Excuse me, Father?" She interrupts. The older couple bids adieu, leaving her and the priest alone. "Do you have a moment to speak to me?"

The priest mulls over the question for a moment, remembering he was to call upon Mister and Mrs. Nicholas and share a meal with them following the conclusion of his Sunday service. But he decides to set aside the calling of his rumbling stomach, albeit grudgingly, for the higher calling of his profession. He invites her in, eyes flicking to the man and woman who accompanied her here in a silent question.

"Mister Bass and my lady's maid will wait outside," the visitor to his church explains. He accepts the information, gesturing for her to enter to church and shutting the door behind them.

"My name is Father George," he introduces. His eyes take in her appearance, and his voice drops to hesitant tone as he hazards a guess. "Mrs. Bass, I presume?"

"No," she swiftly replies. "I'm Mrs. Grimaldi."

"And how long until you and Mister Bass are married?"

The question catches her off guard. She had expected Father George to cast Chuck as her brother as so many have before him after her correction of his guess as to their relation.

"Wha—how did you—"

"I have officiated over many wedding ceremonies and given many a lecture where men and women shift in their seats bored out of their minds. Your Mister Bass may not have believed a word I say, but he clearly wants you to believe in my sermon. And nonbelievers don't exhibit that unless they want something for those they love. So, tell me, have the banns been read for you two yet?"

"No," Blair replies.

"And Mister Bass has made an offer?"

"Yes," she says and then remembering the way that proposal occurred, she amends her previous statement. "No. Not exactly."

Father George raises an eyebrow in question of her answer. He is not entirely comfortable with the "not exactly" portion of her statement. He tries very hard to rise above the gossip passed amongst the members of his parish, but even he succumbs to the curiosity of reading the gossip column in the Spectator every now and then. Mister Bass' name is synonymous with the kind of man Father George councils the young men of his ward not to be.

"I have some," she pauses and her voice drops lower when she finds the correct word. "I have some demons I need to deal with before he can propose."

"Ah," Father George replies with a click of his tongue. "And I suppose those demons are why you traveled to a parish previously unknown to you for Sunday services?"

"How do you know I have never been here before?"

"I have presided over this parish for nearly forty years. I would remember if you or Mister Bass ever set foot into this church."

Blair turns away from Father George, turns her gaze to the alter at the front of the church. She nods her head slowly under the weight of the crucifixion staring down at her. Eyes close yet open when she feels Father George's hand press against her elbow.

"Would you like to carry on our discussion in my office?"

She considers his suggestion, rejects it, and offers her own. The confessional adds another level of protection, of security to her secrets, and she longs to sequester herself in the darkness of the small space. Father George relents after a moment, gestures for her to wait a moment before entering so he can at least maintain a modicum of secrecy between him and his parishioner.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession."

"Go ahead, my child," he says after overcoming the initial shock of the length of time that has passed between her last confession and this one. Not even the most religiously adherent of his flock confess with such consistency.

"I – I participated in amoral behavior with a man," Blair informs him yet her confession is unsurprising to the priest given who accompanied her this morning.

"And how long has it been since you participated in this amoral behavior?"

"Nine weeks."

"So you have already been absolved of this sin?" He asks, and she confirms that she has already been told to say two Hail Mary's for her participation. "Have you committed other sins for which you have not been absolved?"

"Yes," she confesses softly after a moment. Her voice cracks, breaks as she tries to find the strength to tell yet another person of her crime. "My child – I killed my baby with my first husband."

"How?"

"He was born sickly. There – there was an open sore on his back. And—"

She cuts herself off and yet he does not need any more information. The condition she speaks of he has seen twice before – once as a child on the little girl born to his mother and then again thirty-nine years ago to a parishioner in his first year as a priest. Both children had died soon after birth albeit one slower than the other, and the passage had been cruel and torturous to both women he ministered to.

"He wasn't baptized. I sent for a priest, but Father Cavali arrived too late. And now he's condemned to hell with the unrepentant sinners and the murders because I cursed him with my sins."

"Your sins?" Father George questions in surprise.

"I lied. I schemed. I participated in – I initiated amoral behavior with a man. I trapped myself in a union because I was weak. A coward. And God punished my son for my transgressions."

"Oh, no, my dear. Whoever told you this, whoever blamed you was the one weak and cowardly one. We are all sinners in God's eyes, but he would not condemn a helpless child to an eternity of hellfire."

"But my baby was not baptized. Father Cavalia and Father Smythe said—"

"And if you spoke to Father Edwards and Father Johnson," he interrupts, "you would find that they would tell you the same thing I am telling you. Your child experienced great suffering in his short life. God would not want to punish him – or you – any further."

"And if I married, then future children?" She asks slowly with a voice dripping in anxious hopefulness.

"I cannot predict the future, my dear, and I cannot tell you if what happened before will repeat again. That is for God to decide. But I can tell you that he loves all his children and wants us to be happy. Provided we live moralistic lives," he adds, recalling her earlier words about amoral behavior with Mister Bass. "There is no way to know why God called your baby home. But he has obviously given you a second chance at happiness. You should not accept one plan for your life and reject the other."

The two sit in silence for a moment. Her tight and constrained breathing loosens as she internalizes his words, as the fire of blame that ragged inside her cools to smoldering embers. She reaches up, touches the tear rolling down her face, and her voices comes out like a soft whisper.

"Father, would you – would you say a prayer for my little boy?"

Father George agrees immediately, promises to add her son to his daily prayers. And then before he dismisses her, before he tells her to continue to find strength in God, he asks her one more question, asks her if her little boy had a name.

"No, not officially," she replies. "My husband's family was not interested in naming him."

"Yes, but what did you call him, my child?"

"Harold," she confesses in a torturous whisper. "I named him Harold after my father."

She opens the curtain protecting her identity and leaves the cool sanctuary of the church before Father George can ask her any more questions. The heavy oak door opens just wide enough to let her slip through, and the beating of the sun's rays warms her chilled skin. If Mister Bass or Dorota notices her appearance first it does not matter as they both reach her at the same name, concern and worry evident on their faces.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?"

The voices become blended in her ears; the questions an echo of one another. And all she can do is nod, smile through her tears as she demands for Dorota to hand her the list she painstakingly made nine weeks ago.

Dorota hesitates for just a moment, forcing Blair to bark out her name in order to compel her into handing over the list. The lady's maid scrambles to retrieve the list from the small drawstring purse around her wrist and thrusts it into Blair's hands.

At the very bottom of list remains a single name. There is no way to cross the name off the list until she returns home but when she does, when the name is stricken off the long list, she will have faced the obstacles standing between them.

"That's it?"

He asks cautiously, afraid to get his hopes up. She looks at him, looks back at the list and flips it over to reveal two more names written in her perfect script.

* * *

"Not polite to spy, Miss Blair," Dorota chastises without looking up from her stitching. Blair ignores the maid, continues to pick out from behind the curtains and watch the two men out on the veranda engage in easy conversation. Smiles and small laughs are exchanged between them under her watchful eye, and her face betrays the envy she feels over the scene, over how easily the two have managed to renew their friendship given how fractured it was.

She may be a master schemer, but she never expected this scheme to go so well. The idea of inviting Lord Theodore for a playdate with Aaron had come to her quickly, and she conveniently scheduled the playdate when she knew Theodore's mother would be visiting her father and brother and when she knew Chuck would come to call on her in the morning.

He had pulled her aside, demanded to know what she was up to with this plan, but she tenderly touched his face, stroked the line of his jaw in order to force him to look at her and calm down as she implores him to stop lying about how much he misses his former best friend. She refused to accept the passage of time as an excuse, reminding him that other could say could say the same for the two of them and that she knows how they have been friends.

"Look at them, Dorota," she implores. "They act as though nothing occurred between them."

"Mister Bass and Lord Archibald been friends for long time, Miss Blair," Dorota reminds her. "Besides, Lord Archibald have Lady Archibald and Mister Bass have you. No girl to fight over."

"They weren't fighting over a girl," Blair snaps. "They were fighting over Nate not validating Chuck's feelings."

"Over girl," Dorota finishes as she threads her needle through the embroidery and unravels yet another one of Blair's tangled stiches. Her charge may have been raised to be an accomplished lady, but Blair never had the tolerance for the amount of time required to complete such delicate handiwork. She was always too busy losing herself in the love stories she hid under her bed, scheming how to best get back at Penelope for some social slight, and daydreaming about her life as the future Countess of Constance to care.

"Oh, go do something useful," Blair rebukes having grown tired of Dorota's insistence in tying her up in this mess. She has born enough crosses, enough guilt in her life, and she will not accept the blame for this fractured relationship. She will, however, attempt to fix it because she knows how close Chuck and Nate were, knows that Nate is the closest thing Chuck ever had to a brother.

"Lady Rose said I not supposed to leave you alone with Mister Bass. Would not be proper."

"I'm not going to be alone with Mister Bass," Blair corrects. "Nate is here and so are Aaron and Nate's –"

The knock at the door to her private parlor interrupts her diatribe against Dorota's insistence on serving as her chaperon as though she is a debutante in her first season out in society. Bertram, the Rose's butler, opens the door and barely has the chance to announce the arrival of a visitor for Mrs. Grimaldi before said visitor sweeps into the room from behind him.

"What are you doing here?" Blair says icily, startling the blonde so badly that she freezes in the doorway of the room.

"Calling on you," Serena replies. "You sent me a note telling me to come see you, and then you leave me waiting in the foyer as though you weren't expecting me."

"I didn't send you a note," Blair retorts. "The only notes I've sent in last week were to Chuck and Nate."

"Well, I received one this morning with your seal on it," the blonde says.

Blair considers the information for a moment as her eyes slide to appraise her lady's maid, but Dorota's face bears no betrayal as she calmly gathers up her stitching and prepares to flee the fallout of this confrontation. The Polish woman has barely managed to stand up from the settee when the realization of who has played a hand in this scheme dawns upon her mistress.

"That Bassta—"

"Miss Blair," Dorota exclaims.

"It's alright, Dorota," a deep voice announces from the door. Blair's eyes narrow at his appearance and Dorota uses the shift in her attention as a cover to slip out of the door and escape unscathed from the fallout that is sure to occur.

"Bass, this is a punishable offense!"

"I'm only doing what you two refuse to do yourselves," he replies as he reaches for the door handle and begins to shut the door behind him. Serena begins to chastise Chuck as Blair silently steams over his betrayal. "There is a single malt and some Ladurée macaroons under the settee. Plenty to sustain you until you two figure things out."

The door is shut with a resounding thud, and the scrapping of a chair against the floor as it is jammed under the handle of the door informs them both that there is no means of escape unless they decide to climb out the window. Blair turns away from the blonde, walks towards the window once more as she considers her options, and then with a sigh, she resigns herself to falling victim to one of his schemes.

"So what did my missive supposedly say?"

"That you were sorry and you miss me," Serena replies softly.

"How can I be sorry when I only told you the truth?" Blair retorts as she turns on her heels and stares at her former best friend with her arms crossed across her chest. "The man you want to marry was going to publish these terrible stories about me and my family in order to make a name for himself. He was going to sacrifice my reputation in order to have you."

"And I told you that Dan wasn't actually going to go through with it. He gave the story to Chuck because he realizated how much it would hurt me to see you hurt," Serena replies as she takes a seat on the settee Dorota abandoned. "And you didn't even tell me half of what was in that article. I'm supposed to be your best friend, Blair, and I didn't even know you had a baby."

"When was I supposed to tell you? Half of my letters were returned unopened because you were off enjoying the sun in Santorini."

"I wasn't enjoying the sun in Santorini," Serena corrects. Her voice drops lower and cracks painfully as she speaks. "I was there looking for my father."

"You went looking for your father?" Blair questions in surprise as she glides across the room and takes a seat next to Serena. Lord William van der Woodsen set sail one day and never returned, and he is now considered to have abandoned his family by all of society and dead by most.

"Yeah, and I found him, too," Serena replies. "But he didn't want to see me."

"What?" Blair says, shaking her head. "Why didn't you say anything while all this was happening?"

"I guess I was ashamed," Serena informs her with a shrug. "Your dad adored you. Lord Rose adores you. And Mister Humphrey would do anything for Dan and Jenny."

"Not knowing you is your father's loss," Blair informs her gently. Serena shrugs her shoulders once again, tells Blair that she cannot seem to give up on the idea of finding him.

"I can't seem to get anything right. I didn't know you lost a baby, and I kept going on and on about wonderful your life in Paris was. Why didn't you stop me?"

"The same reason you didn't tell me," Blair states plainly as her voice wavers with emotion. "I was ashamed. I didn't want people to find out how terribly wrong my life had gone and judge me for the things I've done."

"You're my best friend, Blair. I wouldn't have judged you," Serena tells her. Blair offers a pointed look in rejection of her words, and Serena cannot help but smile as she backtracks slightly. "Okay, so I judged you when you first told me you kissed Chuck but, Blair, I've only ever wanted you to be happy. And now this thing between you and Dan—"

"What he wrote would have caused a scandal and you know it."

"And you would have run away again, ruining your chance at happiness with Chuck," Serena pointedly replies. "But Dan wasn't going to publish it. Chuck's already made sure of that. And even if he had, I would have helped you get through it."

"Really?"

"I love Dan, but we're sisters. You're my family. What is you, is me," the blonde replies as she reaches out and squeezes Blair's hand. "And I'm sorry I wasn't there for you in France when everything went horribly wrong, but there's nothing you could ever say to make me let go. I love you."

The two young women embrace; hold each other tightly as the door to the sitting room is pushed open. Blair looks over Serena's shoulder and her eyes narrow at the man watching from the doorway.

"Bass," she testily greets as she and Serena break apart. She stands up from the settee, sweeps across the room, and stands directly in front of him with a glare on her lips.

"You scheme against me," he informs her. "I scheme against you."

"Well, I don't like it," she snaps. "Desperate times may call for desperate measures, but scheming should be restricted to outsiders."

Chuck nods his head in agreement, snags her hand in his and raises it to his lips as he asks if she needs more time to accomplish what is left on her list.

"Yes," she informs him to his surprise. He had thought this would be the end, the final hurdle behind them, but she retracts her hand from his and taps it against his face in dismissal. "I'm spending the day with my best friend. You and yours seem to have returned to your old ways so I doubt you'll be too lonely without me."


	13. Part Twelve

_Spotted: The Devil coming to claim his prize, and the mistress of his heart gladly accompanying him into the fire._

* * *

Father George climbs the steps to stand in front of the alter. His right knee cracks painfully at the movement; his physical ailments attempting to stand in between him and this ordination of a holy act. He turns to view the congregation seated before him, turns to stand majestically before them, and he cannot help but clutch his Bible to his chest and smile just a bit wider. The promise of love and fidelity causes his heart to soar, and performing the rites for a couple so obviously in love will always be the pleasure of his life as a priest and spiritual shepherd.

The music, provided by Mrs. Hector playing a spinet tucked away to one side of the church, pauses to allow the player to move her hands and begin to play the opening chords of the bridal march. The priest turns his head to view the bridegroom, to meet the gaze of the man who came to confession three weeks ago and took up nearly two hours of his time as his intended waited patiently in the pews. He had clearly not wanted to be there, but he confessed that he would gladly divulge his so-called sins if it meant his intended would finally be prepared for the happiness he intends to shower upon them.

When Father George's eyes meet with the bridegroom, he nods his head in quiet support and then lifts his head, looks down the aisle with a face betraying its usually amiable expression. But his expression changes at the sight before him; his eyes widening and then sparkling as he speaks.

"Well," he murmurs, "my word."

Skirts swish across the stone floor as ladies shuffle about in their seats to see, and the expectant hush is shattered by excited whispers. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations carry forward to where the bridegroom and his attendant stand, and the impulse to turn and look is fought with a stiffened back and then lost with a discreet turn of his head.

His eyes land first on the pew reserved for the bride's family, on the middle-aged woman smiling mistily as she watches the bride approach. Move to look at the little boy seated with his arms folded across his chest in a protest over the fact that his sister will be moving away from Rosewood tonight and his new brother-in-law had not been willing to compromise by trading Monkey for his other favorite playmate. And then his eyes roam to the bride making her way down the aisle and he cannot breathe, cannot believe that she will finally be his.

The pristine white associated with a bride has been replaced by a soft blue, by the sign of a second marriage but she is still a vision in her gown, still more than he could have ever imagined. She carries the color with a dramatic flair, but it is not the gown that dominates the vision. Her eyes glow with intensity, with a vibrant mirth of happiness.

Chuck drags in a breath as she steps to her place beside him, and he is dimly aware that to all eyes but his she appears a radiant bride as her lips curve in a smile of joyful happiness. Only for him, though, do her eyes flash in amusement over how she has stunned him, over how she has once again managed to gain the upper hand.

He stares at her openly as she looks at Father George and smiles, as the elderly priest shuffles and reshuffles the pages of his Bible as he tries to find his place. The man he asked to be his attendant in today's proceedings nudges him, and he lifts his head to look towards the alter as Father George, finally ready, clears his throat and begins.

"We are gathered here today…"

He barely registers the words he waited so long to hear, and he repeats the phrases he is told to say in a daze. Then she speaks and instantly captures every remaining shred of his attention and awareness as she vows before the God she holds so dearly to be his wife, in sickness and in health, for better and for worse until death should part them.

And he feels like death might be sneaking up on him because his heart beats widely in his chest as Nate passes the ring to Father George, as the priest blesses the ring and holds out the open Bible with the ring balanced on the page for him to reach out and take. He picks it up, turns to her, and offers her a wife smile, a smile most have never been privy to before as he closes his fingers about her left hand and slides the ring on her finger.

"And now by the grace vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife."

Father George closes his Bible and beams upon them as they turn and clutching each other's hand, make their way down the aisle through the heavy parish doors into the sunshine. The congregation of onlookers rushes to congratulate them, to offer felicitous well wishes before they depart for the wedding breakfast at Rosewood.

Yet for someone who soaks up praise and attention, someone who holds fastidiously to the rules of high society, it falls on her to guide her bridegroom to the carriage and encourage him to hasten their departure. It falls on her to barely wait for the carriage door to close, for the carriage to round the bend before she leans over and presses her lips against his in a reminder of her joy, in a reminder of what they have now become.

"I love you," he whispers against her lips when they break apart. Her eyes flutter close at his words, at his declaration, and she tries to use them to anchor herself against the tide of worry and fear that is has tried to drag her asunder so many times before.

* * *

Hands trembling, she moves them off the dressing table and places them in her lap in order to mask the physical manifestation of her anxiety in the folds of her dressing gown. Each hairpin is pulled from her hair, placed on the dressing table in front of her, and she watches in the mirror as her meticulously fashioned hair falls to loose curls around her face. She reaches up, touches one curl gingerly, but drops it immediately when the lady's maid working quietly behind her catches her eye.

"Hush, Dorota," Blair bites out furiously.

"I not say anything, Miss Blair," Dorota protests, but her eyes twinkle with knowledge and Blair blanches at how observant her lady's maid has been come. . "Braid or hair down?"

"Braid," Blair replies immediately, falling into the routine that was once hers for so many months. A long braid running down her back will keep things contained; keep things easier to deal with when the evening is over. If Dorota questions her decision, the lady's maid says nothing as she quickly parts and pleats Blair's hair. When she is done, when not a single hair is out of place, the maid touches Blair's shoulder in that tender affection Blair pretends not to appreciate and slips out of the room.

Blair tries to command herself to calm down at the sight of her worry and concern staring back at her in the reflection of the mirror hung high above her new dressing table. The whirlwind excitement of the day has given away to her duty, and she takes a deep sigh as she resigns herself to her fate.

She stands from the table, makes her way across the tastefully decorated room she now calls her own to the large bed at the center of the room, and pulls back the blue coverlet before tossing her dress gown over the foot of the bed. Her nightgown brushes across the top of her feet; it's long hem, waist length sleeves, and high neckline keeping her covered until she can slip under the sheets and pull them to her chin.

And then she waits, waits for the sound of boots hitting against the floor as their wearer stops to knock on the door. But there is no knock; the door flying open without courtesy as to her state of preparation. And Chuck enters the room, freezes when he sees her lying in bed with the covers tucked around her.

The way his face falls causes her own to furrow in confusion, and she is just about to ask him what the trouble is when he begins pulling on his cravat, undoes the fastening of his waistcoat and breeches with expert precision. She buries herself deeper into the covers at the thought, at the reminder of how exactly he became such an expert. She fights between curiosity and decorum when she hears his clothes hit the floor, chooses to continue to stare at the ceiling as the covers beside her are moved aside and he slides into the bed beside her.

He frowns at the style of her nightgown, at the way it completely obscures his view of her, but his fingers make quick work of the tie about her neck – pulling on the string so the bow unfurls and the fabric falls to unveil her neck. He bends over, presses his lips against her neck and then trails them upward to her lips as his fingers slip between the fabric to find what he has seen twice before.

But she remains frozen, stiff against him even as the fire of his touch heats her from within. He tries touching her, tries caressing her rapidly heating skin yet she does not yield, does not mold her body around his, does not respond the way he has become accustomed to her responding. He opens his mouth to ask her what is wrong, asks it when her body stiffens under his touch and he raises his head to find her eyes fixated on the ceiling above their bed.

And her brow furrows deeper as she sweeps her eyes across the room to look at him because she does not understand the question, does not understand why he so incensed by her lack of participation. She wonders if he wants her to move her legs apart just a bit wider, to lift the hem of her nightgown just a bit higher, and she starts to comply when his hand reaches out and his fingers overlay hers to prevent her movements.

"It's just us here, Blair. You and me. There is no room for secrets. Nor should there be. If something is bothering you, please, tell me."

"I – There's nothing wrong," she replies with her head shaking at his worry. "I'm just - I'm your wife and this is how–."

"My wife?" He echoes, interrupting her words. The marvel in his tone is gone, replaced by one of confusion and concern that manages to both confuse and concern her. "Is that why you're acting so cold? You think you're supposed to act this way now that you're my wife?"

This isn't a matter of thinking this is how she's supposed to act for she knows that she is supposed to behave this way. To lift her nightgown and allow her husband to carry out his business until he is spent, until he climbs for her bed and returns to his own room through the adjoining door. A process that will repeat over and over again until he grows tired of her or, possibly the less desired outcome, she becomes with child.

"Good thing you are more than just my wife," he muses tenderly."My Blair."

"Your Blair?" She questions loudly, questions soundly because she doesn't like the way he lays ownership to everything she is.

"Yes, my Blair," he confirms before pressing a kiss against the corner of her lips, before his forehead and his nose press against hers in a quiet transfer of emotion. "My beautiful, scheming, intelligent, dark, and perfect Blair."

He turns her body against the mattress and into his arms. Stunned by his words, she braces her hands against his chest and draws in a huge breath. But before she can question his words, he bends his head and kisses every thought from her head.

He kisses her until she is gasping, until the taste of his lips and tongue against hers overwhelms her, until her arms snake around his neck and leaves him to cling to him. The melding of their mouths, the touch of their tongues is hungry and ravenous, a voracious charge into everything they once participated in and more.

His lips slide from hers to feather along her jaw, and she sinks her fingers into his back, his neck as she closers her eyes and feels his hands gather her more securely, more fully against him. The material of her nightgown had once felt thick and firm against him, but the material becomes flimsy at the contact of his body against hers. And her fingers slide upward to tangle in his hair, to hold him to her even as she speaks.

"I'm going to have a baby."

He lifts his head, hovers only teaches away from hers as he studies her, as his lips quirk into a smile as he considers teasing her for her misunderstanding of the steps required to reach that state. But the way her eyes are shaped and filled with something he cannot describe allows him to see and sense her search for understanding, for resolution. And then his lips firm as he struggles to find a way to answer her.

"Most likely."

"And there is nothing you can do?" She questions, repeating what she had asked him once in a moment of anguish, in a moment of hesitation as she worked through her grief and made her list of all she must accomplish in order to accept his proposal.

"No."

"Why?" She questions once more. She is not blind to the knowledge of his debauchery, to the knowledge that there must be something amongst men that allows them to escape with only a few souvenirs, if you will, of their time spent in another woman's bed. His assurance that he had none, that he took care of his business had only bolstered her insistence that he employ the same methodologies with her.

"Because you're mine. Because I'm going to love and support you through anything."

The words should have sounded dramatic, but his tone makes them much more. His flat implacability makes them a statement of fact, a statement of certainty about life as he sees it. Her breath catches in her throat; her eyes searching for his as she struggles to label what she sees in the dark depths.

"This is madness."

He pauses then closes the last few inches; his lips brushing against hers as he murmurs his answer.

"And more."

Chuck takes her mouth again, muses about how right she is as she meets every press of his lips, every stroke of his tongue. He craves her, needs her to fill that addictive ache inside him, and she is here ready and willing and, when he asks to just to assure any questions, affirms that she is sure.

They are both heated, the engagement of lips and tongues no longer sufficient to meet the desire coiling within them. He spreads his hands, lets them rover over the fabric hiding her from him until he finds the hem and begins to inch it slowly over her lips. He feels her responsive shudder against his skin, feels her body press instinctively against his as she shifts closer to him.

He rolls them both so that her back is pressed against the mattress, so that he can hover above her and tug the nightgown above her hips and her breasts and her head until she lies naked before him. She watches him watch her, watches his chest tighten as the sight robs him of breath. Her long braid lies coiled on the pillow beside her, and he reaches out to undo the tie holding it together.

It takes her a moment to understand what he wants, to connect the dots back to the fantasy he once shared with her in the middle of a crowded ballroom. And she wonders if he is going to send her to fetch the necklace from her dressing table to complete the image, but his lips press against hers once more, his fingers become entangled in her locks, and the silkiness of her hair brushes against her breasts in an overwhelming amount of sensation that she forgets the thoughts she had been chasing.

He bites back a groan as her thighs slides against him and concentrates on her, concentrates on the slide of his hands across her stomach to the underside and then to the whole of her breasts. The contact makes her gasp, makes her lift and press her body against him.

Blair keeps her eyes closed, battles to quell the shivers coursing down her spine. She is not cold, is not in need of slipping her nightgown back over her, but rather is in need of less, in need of reaching a state that is not physically possible. He touches and caresses all the while feathering kisses across her jaw, her neck, her chest. Yet there is no desperation in his touch, only a confidence that screams of how well he knows how each evocative caress captures her senses and leaves her wanton for more.

The only thoughts that enter her mind are the repetitive chant for more, the repetitive reminder that her first marriage bed was never so pleasurable when his hands slide down her body to touch the soft skin of her inner thighs, the wet folds between them. The touch catches her off guard, sends her eyes fluttering open as she tries to find the words to ask him what—

The feeling of him slipping inside her, of his blunt head resting inside her feels so vastly different from the rough fumble of action occurring beneath her nightgown, beneath the sheets as she lays there and waits for her husband to finish. But her new husband seems concerned with her, concerned with the way she sinks her fingers into his back and involuntarily tenses around him. He slips out, stops the ministration of his lips to her breast to ask her if she is alright.

And rather than answer, rather than verbally assure him, she shows a surprising amount of force as she rolls him onto his back, rolls on top of him, and rolls her hips against him. He groans and throws his head back against the pillow in amazement over her and the feeling of her desire against his. His fingers dig into her hips, hold her in place as she hesitates and second guesses.

"Is this okay?"

But her whispered question turns into a self-satisfied smirk as she wants him lose control, wants him fall apart in the way he has always managed to affect her. She shrieks when he rolls them back over, when he presses her body into the mattress with the weight of his, when he slips back inside her. He moves slowly at first, moves in that languish way that matches the pressing of his lips against her and spurs her to hook her legs around his back and cross her ankles to hold him in place.

He moves just a tiny bit faster, edges her just a tiny bit closer to her breaking point as he gently strokes her cheek and kisses her over and over again. And then just before he breaks, before he loses himself to the flames, he reaches down and touches the wet, heated part of her body, presses and caresses until she steps into the flames and shatters alongside him.

"What was that?"

"You," he replies against her neck. "You experiencing pleasure and happiness in our marriage."

His hot breathe brushes across her sensitive skin for a long moment before he slips out and rolls away from her. His head hits the pillow beside hers as she waits for to find her breath, waits for him to pull on his clothes and leave her room for his. When he does not, she turns her head to look at him curiously.

"Aren't you going to go?"

The harshness behind her words is perceived in a way she does not intend, but he jerks his head in surprise over how quickly she is to banish him from her bed. He rolls on his side, holds her gaze as his fingers twitch towards the naked plane of her belly.

"Is that what you want?" He questions softly, hesitantly.

"Men do not stay in their wife's bed," she replies simply.

"Societal etiquette says they should not. No one said anything about cannot," he reminds her. "And, besides, when have I ever done what society says I should?"

"In that case, do that again," she commands, punctuating each of their final three words as their own sentences. He turns his head, looks at her with a smile and a shrug.

"What's the rush? We've got all the time in the world."

But she is already climbing over him, pressing her body against his and her lips against his as she tries to encourage him to participate in what she hopes will become a repetitive part of their marriage.


	14. Part Thirteen

_Ah, annual masquerade ball hosted by one Mister Charles Bass. Fear not, dear readers, recent nuptials have not changed the tone of this event. And those of you who think masks may hide identities and provide a certain amount of anonymity? Well, secrets always have a way of becoming unmasked._

* * *

The heart falls against the flushed skin of her chest, cooling and soothing her as his fingers fumble with the clasp. She reaches up to touch the heart, to fondle it between her fingers so as to draw strength from the physical reminder of how much he loves her. His fingers fall to touch her elbow, to hold her steady before his hand slides around her waist and his fingers stroke the soft skin of her belly.

She falls back against him and relishes in the feeling of soft circles being traces into her skin as her eyes flutter to mirror to meet his. She offers him a soft smile as she tilts her neck, affording him better access to the nape of her neck. He chuckles and groans appreciatively against her skin in response, and she offers him a teasing smirk.

"You're incorrigible."

"Me?" He questions as he raises his head and stares at the image of them reflected in the mirror. "I seem to recall that you were the one who pulled me upstairs after breakfast, who refused to let me out of our bed this morning."

"Hush," she admonishes but the smile on her lips gives her away, and he laughs as his lips press another kiss against her neck. As his fingers trail across her skin, slowly stroking before coming to press against the flat plane of her belly, and her eyes fly to meet his in the mirror, to search for any hint of recognition.

The knock against the door reminds them both of how they can no longer fight the start of their day, how Dorota is waiting to dress her mistress for the ball tonight. Chuck groans in his disapproval as Blair spins from his grasp, as she pulls on her dressing gown and bids for Dorota to enter.

The lady's maid bustles into the room, averting her gaze but unable to fight the smile that graces her lips when Chuck kisses his bride and promises to find her tonight. Dorota busies herself with arranging Blair's gown for the evening while she waits for the telltale click of the door signifying Chuck's departure, for Blair to seat herself at her dressing table.

"Mister Chuck look very happy," Dorota comments as she begins plaiting Blair's long hair into a complicated arrangement. Blair hums her agreement at Dorota's words, but she frowns when she catches the pointed look on Dorota's face through the mirror. She shakes her head, unfurling the partially arrange hairstyle and causing Dorota to drop her hands in exasperation.

"Miss Blair, you tell Mister Chuck right now."

But Blair waves away the maid's concern, tells Dorota to focus on fixing her hair rather than fixing her life. Her hand falls to her stomach, falls to press against the flat plane of her belly as Dorota twists and sets her hair with demanding eyes that never waver in admonishment for Blair to comply.

When she is done, when Dorota moves to place the brush back on the dressing table, Blair reaches out and captures Dorota's wrist in the tight grip of her hand. Dorota raises her gaze to meet the eyes of the young woman she had served from seven to seventeen in the mirror, the eyes of the young woman she had sent off to Paris alone and then cried for when she overheard Lord and Lady Rose discussing the death of her baby in hushed whispers one evening and her heart nearly breaks once more when she sees the vulnerable, hesitant look on her face.

"Dorota, promise me that you won't tell him."

"This secret can't be secret much longer. Mister Chuck going to know," Dorota reminds her gently, solemnly. "But I take your secrets to my grave, Miss Blair."

"Good," Blair replies as she lifts her mask off the dressing table and raises it to her eyes. "Or else I might have to inform Chuck about what you and Vanya were doing alone in the butler's office last night."

"Miss Blair, I do no such thing!" Dorota protests.

* * *

"No," Blair says as she stands from the dressing table and moves towards the dress Dorota has laid out for her. She fingers the lace, drops it as she looks at Dorota and gives her a knowing smile. "But you want to."

The couples at the center of the room swirl and spin; their movements making the masks hiding their identities redundant. Blair skirts around the perimeter of the room and greets the guests that stop her, that comment on the beauty the Empire's rooms are rumored to have. Their pleasantries are matched by hers, but she knows immediately that they are angling for future invitations to visit Chuck Bass' country estate not to examine the rumored beauty of the Empire but to examine the marriage of Mister and Mrs. Bass for themselves.

Blair has not been immune to hearing their hushed whispers of disbelief over Chuck Bass' recent marriage to the former Mrs. Grimaldi, over his decision to marry a widower rather than one of the fresh-faced debutantes from the last five years. But all she has to do is angle her head so that the light sparkles against the heart-shaped necklace hung around her neck and disbelief gives way to the undeniable reality that Chuck Bass – the notorious rake whose reputation is only salvageable by the extent of his wealth for those desperate to change their fortunes through their daughters – married the wife of the former French ambassador.

She excuses herself from the group of people clustered around her and leaves them to complete her turn about the room. Only a handful of identities are completely obscured by the presence of their masks, and her stepfather's short stature and balding easily casts him outside of that group despite the presence of his cleverly constructed mask. He greets her with a short bow, with a teasing smile as he affectionately refers to her by her new moniker.

"Mrs. Bass, I was just telling your mother how delightful I find this party. Who knew the intrigue of a masked soiree could be so much fun?"

"No one ever doubted Charles' ability to provide entertainment, my Lord," Eleanor replied. Her tierce tone betrayed by the way her eyes scan the room with an appraising look only to settle on her daughter with a smile. "And where is your husband, Blair? Cyrus and I wanted to say hello."

"He's...somewhere," she replies, trailing off as her eyes scan the room. She finds a man with a striking resemblance to her husband standing across the ballroom conversing with Serena and Lady van der Woodsen. She cannot be sure given the way his mask covers his face, but she mutters her apologies to her mother before excusing herself from their presence just to be sure. He had sworn he would need no clues, no hint about her dress or her mask to find her amongst the crowded ballroom, and she is not about to make their little game easier on him by standing with her mother and Cyrus all night.

The sound of the musicians starting up for another set sends her out of the room in search of a quiet, empty space. The fatigue she has managed to mask so well recently is starting to set in; the swirl of brightly colored gowns causing her nausea to return. Her appearance in the dimly lit hallway sends the maids who had snuck upstairs to watch the festivities and admire the fashions scurrying for safety of the kitchen downstairs, but she pays them little mind as she moves towards the one room where few will dare to enter. Her hand curls around the doorknob, turns it and opens the door just wide enough that a gasp can escape her lips when she spies a figure seated behind the desk.

He stands at her appearance in the doorway, moves around the desk to head towards her. And he reaches out to touch the elbow of the arm folded across her waist before trailing his fingers down her exposed skin to grasp her fingers and lift them to his lips.

"I told you I would not need clues to find you."

"You cheated," she retorts as she pulls her hand from his grasp. "You were supposed to find me. Not wait for me to find you."

He chuckles softly as he brushes aside her words as semantics, leans forward to ghosts his words about not needing clues on how to treat her, how to ravish her against her ear. She betrays no hint of the shiver running down her spine as she turns her head to murmur her own words in his ear.

"No clues today. No clues five years ago."

Something dark flickers across his face, and she barely catches it in the way his mask obscures his features. But his eyes connect with hers, pulling her so deeply into their depths that she cannot bear to look away as she reaches behind her, shuts the door, and clicks the lock to keep what happens here just between them. Blair laces her fingers in his, drags his hands to place them against her hips before reaching up to remove his mask and place one of her hands against his cheek so as to reverently stroking her thumb against his now exposed cheekbone.

"I didn't—I'm sorry," she whispers. He lowers his head towards hers, press his forehead against hers as he lets her words wash over him. "But I'm here now. I'm your wife. I'm your Blair."

"My Blair," he repeats, whispering the words as he closes the last inch between them and presses his lips against her in a tender kiss. He kisses her gently, slowly, deliberately drawing out the simple caress of his lips against hers. An indulgence of warm, simple, and reassuring kisses. An indulgence of a much slower pace than last time, of the affordance of time to pause and savor and enjoy.

His hands slide around her back; his fingers searching out the laces of her dress as their kisses deepen. His tongue slides over hers, tangling and enticing and caressing while her hand cradles his cheek, cupping and stroking and urging him on. His fingers make quick work of her laces and then trail up her spine to push aside the gown's shoulder. She breaks the kiss to meet his eyes then drops her shoulder and allows him to draw the bodice of her gown down to waist.

He returns to undo the bows at the top of her chemise, to repeat the action he took with the bodice of her dress until she is bare to the waist. One hand resting on his shoulder, the other curled about the nape of his neck, she watched he look and survey and appreciate before he raises a hand and gently, reverently cups the underside of her breast.

She pulls away from his touch with a hiss, with a reaction that causes his eyes to flash to hers in confusion. He whispers her name as she tenses beneath the touch, and he releases her almost immediately as emotion flashes between them. She swallows the emotion welling up inside her as she leans into him and presses the softest of kisses against his lips.

To reassure him or herself, to implore him to understand or herself to be brave, she does not know. But her secret becomes a whispered confession as she closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his once more.

"I'm going to have a baby."

"Most likely," he replies with a kiss against the corner of her lips before dipping his head and pressing another against her neck. The words are repeated from their wedding night, from when she stopped him over a possibility that wasn't even a possibility yet.

"No," she corrects when her eyes flutter open to meet his. "I'm going to have a baby now."

"Now?" He repeats, freezing with his head still dipped and his lips still hovering over the pulse point at the base of her neck.

"Well, not for another few months," she replies. "But there will be a baby by your birthday."

He pulls away to search her eyes, to search out some the answer to his question before he can even ask it.

"And you? You are alright?"

"I—I'm alright. A little tired, but –"

"I'll have Arthur and Vanya send all the guests home," he interrupts. His voice is twinges with worry, undermining the definiteness of his decision.

"That's not necessary. Besides, I should enjoy it while I still can. Soon I'll be like Jenny Humphrey and unable to attend parties," Blair says with a smirk in reference to how the Countess of Constance has once again missed a soiree due to her current state. And Chuck smiles at her comment because there once was a time when word of the Archibalds' latest addition would reach his ears and he would mutter about how Nathaniel should leave the poor woman alone, but now he has his own wife and understands that even separate bedrooms are a poor barrier between people so deeply in love.

"But you are healthy?"

"I'm healthy," she replies and then her eyes drop to where his hand is pressed against her, to where her secret will soon no longer be hidden away. "I don't—there's no way to know about—"

He reaches out and tips her chin, forcing her to look him directly in the eye as his thumb runs down the line of her jaw in tender affection.

"I will hold our baby no matter what," he promises softly, solemnly in an unwavering tone. "I will love our baby as much as I love you."


	15. Part Fourteen

She groans loudly, moans as Dorota presses the damp cloth against her head. And she turns away, turns her head to look towards the windows shut and hidden behind dark curtains. She longs to throw them open, to stare out over the land and lake built and cultivated under the promise of what she thought she was no longer entitled to. The darkness of the room is slowly suffocating her, drawing comparisons between the past and the present she swore she would not make.

Yet, the fear of the past repeating once more flares inside her as her body tightens and contracts with the pain. Frantic eyes roll towards her mother, roll towards the only woman of her acquaintance beside Dorota allowed in with her. She had originally sent her mother away yet calls for her when being left with only her lady's maid and the midwife to attend to her becomes too much to bear alone, begins to resemble the past.

And Eleanor for all her poise and perfection immediately grabs her daughter's hand and distracts her with news from downstairs, with stories of how Chuck is pacing up and down the length of the room with Aaron and Monkey trailing behind like militiamen following their commanding officer. The story is meant make her laugh, but the concern inside her morphs to include the other love of her life.

"He's just excited, my dear," Eleanor soothes as she sweeps Blair's hair from her sweaty forehead.

"What if—"

"And he made Mrs. Thornton promise to bring the baby straight to him," Eleanor interrupts. "He is quite eager to hold his baby, isn't that right, Mrs. Thornton?"

"Straight to Mister Bass," the midwife affirms as she gestures to Dorota to help her bend Blair's knees, to help her set up and prepare for the impending arrival. "After the baby's mother, of course."

"And his grandmother," Eleanor adds, continuing her insistence that the baby will be a boy.

Blair groans out her reply, shifts her body as the pain shoots up and down her back. Her hand clutches against the sheet for the shortest of moments before Eleanor grasps it once more and holds it tightly in her own. The pressure builds, mounts until tears spring to her eyes and this time, as Blair bites down on her lip to keep from screaming and bears down with all her might, she has someone to hold her hand and guide her through the anticipation and the pain and the uncertainty.

"Once more, Mrs. Bass," Mrs. Thornton bids.

The pieces of her that want to hold her baby inside her forever, to protect her child from the insecurity of the future lose out to those parts of her yearning to meet and greet and end this tonight. And the prayer on her heart, the prayer to her father and her first child to watch over her tonight slips past her lips just as her second child slides into the world.

She falls back against the pillows, falls back with a cry that is echoed in the wail of her newborn baby. Her eyes close as she listens, as she internalized the sound she never heard the first time around. The noise is enough to sustain her as Dorota presses a wet cloth against her forehead, as her mother squeezes her hand, as the midwife carries the baby to the basin of water to wash away the unsavory parts that no gentleman or lady would want to look at.

"The baby's back?" She croaks out her question, hesitant and unsure if she wants to know the answer, and her eyes open to look at her mother, to slide to watch the midwife attending to her child.

"It's a boy, Mrs. Bass," Mrs. Thornton replies, and the information causes Dorota to bounce excitedly and her mother to murmur about security and happiness. "A fine and healthy heir for your husband."

Yet the whole world does not seem to begin spinning again until her baby is turned, until the skin of the baby's back is shown to be unblemished and whole. The tears welling in the corner of her eyes fall in a torrent rain, fall as she watches her baby be bundled in soft blankets and carried over to her. And when baby is placed in her arms, when her hands curl protectively around the first child of hers that she was ever allowed to hold, she marvels over the healthy child squirming and screaming in her arms. Despite the differences between then and now, one thing remains the same; repeating itself as her heart lurches into her throat and an unimaginable amount of love pours through her.

"Ma chérie," she coos as her lips brush over the features of his face that are a reflection of his father's.

* * *

The rhythmic pounding of his boots against the floor echoes about the room, attracting the attention of all those seated about the drawing room waiting with him. He turns on his heels and heads towards the windows at the opposite side of the room, ignoring the glass of scotch his best friend is holding out to him in a silent offering. His gaze falls on the lake in front of his property, on the water sparkling under the glare of the setting sun.

The ducks paddling happily across the water and watching them bobbing and floating across the surface causes his gaze to soften, cause his hands to unfurl and relax against his side. He sighs softly, turns on the heel of his boot to face those seated about the room.

"Does it normally take this long?"

Anxiety laid bare in his voice, he looks from his father-in-law to his best friend for an answer to his concern. The last time he had been this intimately involved, he had retired to bed expecting to be an older brother and awoke nine hours later to find that he had been robbed of his mother and left an only child with a father torn apart by anguish sometime in the middle of the night. And now as the hours tick by, as he paces across the floor, his concern mounts and grows and brings him to the edge of sheer panic.

"Maybe I should—" He begins, looking towards the door and contemplating taking the stairs two at a time. His best friend moves from the chair to clasp him on the back, to steer him towards the newly abandoned chair and the glass brimming with his chosen vice.

"You'd just be in the way," Nate informs him with the knowledge of a man who has been through this many times before. "Lady Rose will call you up when both Blair and the baby are presentable."

Chuck frowns, shrugging Nate's hand off his shoulder and standing once more. He looks to his father-in-law seated across from him with his young son curled up asleep in his lap, to his wife's best friend trying to offer him supportive smiles despite the way her hands ring with worry.

"I'm supposed to hold the baby immediately," he reminds those gathered. His words come out in a haggard whisper and he repeats them again in a stronger tone, in a forceful reminder that he promised Blair that he would hold and love and cherish this baby no matter what. Daughter or son. Healthy or hurting. "I promised Blair."

"And you will," Cyrus interjects as he runs his hand through the soft, baby fuzz finally sprouting on top of Aaron's head.

The excitement of becoming an uncle, the way he marched behind Chuck for hours wore the little boy out, and he climbed into his father's lap and fallen asleep after extracting a promise to wake him immediately once the baby arrived. Both Cyrus and Eleanor had tried to leave Aaron at Rosehaven with his nursemaid when they received Chuck's hasty dispatch to come to the Empire immediately. But the little boy had turn to tears when his schemes failed him, crying in a language neither of them understood until they agreed to allow him to come.

"But I also know my stepdaughter would not be pleased if you barged in and saw her-"

The opening of the door cuts Cyrus off mid-sentence, sends Chuck's head snapping towards it in equal parts eager anticipation and concern. And the smile on his mother-in-law's face is enough of a prompt to send him striding towards her, asking in strangled tones all the questions that have gone unanswered since the wee hours of the morning when Blair had shoved him out of their bed and told him to call for the midwife.

"Is she - and the baby?"

Eleanor steps aside and allows the midwife to step forward, to show off the tiny bundle in her arms. The blankets the child has been wrapped in block Chuck's view, and he gingerly pulls back the blankets to afford himself a first look at his child. The baby's relaxed features and closed eyes give him just a moment of pause, but then lips pucker and open partway as the child moves and squirms in the midwife's arms.

"A healthy son to inherit your empire, Charles," Eleanor informs him in a surprisingly soft voice for the matriarch he grew up knowing.

"A son," he repeats because as the days turned into weeks and as Blair hide herself behind cleverly draped fabrics, he had become convinced the baby would, in fact, be a girl. A little girl who would look like his wife and have him so firmly wrapped around her dainty fingers.

Of course, Chuck had never told Blair this because despite the way he tried to soothe her fears, there was a part of her that never really could dream along side him and a part of him that feared his own past would repeat itself. A boy, an heir to carry on the name seemed unimaginable for him just as much as for her.

"And Blair?" He asks, tearing his gaze from the baby's soft features to look at the wizened face of the midwife.

"Dorota is helping her right now," Eleanor replies for the midwife. "But she was very insist that we bring the baby to you so you can keep your promise to her."

Chuck nods his head, looks back at the baby for just a moment before sweeping his gaze to the empty chair closest to them. He begins to gesture towards, to suggest that maybe he should sit, when the midwife waves away his concern.

"You're not going to drop your son," the midwife replies. "Never in all my years has a man dropped his heir."

And he finds himself questioning how many men actually hold their newborn baby because in the all the years where his acquaintances have married and return to his parties with their lineage secure, not a single one mentioned holding their infant son or daughter. Nursemaids and wet nurses were the carriers of choice, employed to keep the infant quiet and healthy until the son was old enough to join the hunting party and the daughter was old enough to be traded for land, title, and prestige.

"Only the ones who truly love their wife," the midwife replies as she moves the baby from her embrace to his, as she watches the darkness behind his eyes replaced with the shining light of love and happiness. And Charles Bass - the rake, the fodder for gossipers from the most prestigious ballrooms to the dining hall of taverns - gently strokes his child's plump cheek and softly offers the God his wife so firmly holds onto a word of thanks.

Those assembled in the room move towards him, move to get a closer look at the baby are forced to wait just a while longer as Chuck slides past his mother-in-law and the midwife to slowly ascend the stairs and return to his wife's side.

Dorota oversees the removal of the sheets and the cleaning of the room by the chambermaids as she runs a brush through Blair's hair, as she helps her mistress change into another nightgown. It is she that spies Mister Bass standing in the doorway, and she discretely shoos the chambermaids out of the room before following out the door behind them.

Chuck moves slowly across the room to take a seat on the bed beside his wife and carefully passes the baby back into her waiting arms. She smiles at the babe in arms, sweeps her shining eyes to look at him when Chuck presses a tender kiss against her temple.

"I love you."

"I love you, too," she replies with a blissful sigh. "Your heir needs a name."

"Our son," he corrects immediately, and the rush of air that escapes past her lips is more a laugh of happiness than a content agreement. This isn't her baby or his heir, but their wonderful and marvelous and healthy son. Mutual ownership that is a far cry from the way the blame and sorrow was placed upon her the first time around.

"Our son needs a name. And, please, do not suggest Charles Bass the second. The world can only handle one Chuck Bass."

* * *

The processional into the drawing room begins with the nurse carrying in the newest member of the Bass family and ends with the delighted parents sweeping into the room with Blair's hand curled around her husband's arm. Chuck touches her fingers, holds her hand against his arm as the guest watch them assemble at the front of the room near the makeshift alter. For many in attendance, this is their first look at the new mother yet all eyes, including Blair's, are fixed on the child held in the arms of the nurse.

"Congratulation, my child," Father George bids to Blair softly with a smile. The letter sent asking him to officiate the christening ceremony had come soon after the baby's birth and he had readily agree, willing to brave the long journey from his country parish to the Bass' country estate in order to see the woman and man he married beam with happiness and trade sly smiles when they thought no one was looking.

He clears his throat, begins the ceremony as he would if this was occurring in his parish. The question as to who sponsors this child is met with the bow of the woman standing on the left and the man standing on the right of the party assembled to watch. Lady Serena van der Woodsen and Lord Nathaniel Archibald were reintroduced to him soon after his arrival at the Empire, but even in his old age can he remember Mister and Mrs. Bass's longest and closest friends who stood up with them at their wedding. And soon enough he reaches the portion of the service in which he must take the child he has yet to hold in his arms.

The baby's godmother takes the infant from the nurse, carefully adjusting his long and opulent white christening gown and repeating the name which the baby is to be given as she passes him to Father George. And the clergyman tugs back the baby's lace bonnet just enough to sprinkle holy water on his head, to recite a prayer of acceptance and love over the little boy that has clearly brought so much joy and happiness to this household.

"I baptise thee, Henry Charles Bass, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen."

The baby watches with wide eyes as the water is sprinkled on his head, and Father George offers him an indulgent smile, holding him just a little longer than necessary before passing him back to the baby's godmother. Henry is held in Serena's arms until the conclusion of the ceremony at which time Blair eagerly scoops up her baby and holds him while she makes her rounds about the room. The nurse hired to care of the baby follows behind her accustomed to such an active role on the part of Henry's mother even if those here to see the Bass heir on exhibit are not.

Chuck thanks Father George for coming, for officiating yet another important ceremony in their lives for his wife and invites the clergyman to join him and the men in attendance in assembling in another room for a different kind of refreshment than the ones being served to the women. And Father George agrees with a laugh and a comment about it being alright so long as there is no cause for him to assemble a makeshift confessional at the end of the evening.

The baby is passed from mother to nurse after everyone in attendance has had the opportunity to admire Blair's triumph in securing her husband's lineage and happiness in becoming a mother. Serena, of course, is the only one to publicly comment on the later, and Blair's smile slips as she eyes her dearest friend.

"I wish you would stay," Blair replies softly, and Serena gives her a tender hug in apology. She needs to go to Santorini one final time and find the answers she has been yearning for, and Dan's position as a reporter to the crown from Italy will afford her the opportunity to escape from under the oppressive gaze of society and finally marry the man she has been in love with for five long years.

"We will write one another about everything. The good and the bad, B," Serena reminds her. And then her fingers reach out to touch the heart-shaped charm against Blair's neck, to remind Blair of her own happy ending that Serena has always wanted for her best friend and now wants for herself. "And I will be back long before Henry finds a young lady he wants to give this to as much as Chuck wanted to give it to you."

* * *

_Spotted: This author setting aside her writing instruments and packing her bags for a voyage across the seas. No, that is not a tear of sadness in my eye but rather a tear of happiness and hope that the happiness of the Bass Empire will be found in the Roman Empire, as well._


	16. Epilogue

**Author's Note: **I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for your reviews, questions, and support. This story began as a fun diversion for myself and morphed into one of the more challenging things I have written. Basing a story on events of late-S5 and staying in Blair's head is hard. Harder than I anticipated it being. So thank you again for reading this, offering your comments and suggestions, and encouraging me to keep challenging myself.

* * *

_Five years later..._

Over the rim of her cup, Serena peers at the men seated in chairs opposite the chaise from where she sits conversing with Blair. In the circles those gathered moved within growing up, the name Bass was synonymous with a certain type of man, with the kind of man born into power and wealth and trained to use it because the ends always justifies the means.

Yet Serena cannot help but notice the way his eyes soften every time they rest on Blair, every time they hear his wife's laughter. Even the austere lines of his face and of his lips seem to ease under her presence, and the troubled expression etched into him following the death of his mother has all but disappeared. The light touch of his hand against his wife's back, the light look of their shared glances makes it clear that the deep, almost startling vibrant connection between them has not changed in the five years since Serena last visited their home.

Another power rules in this empire – one that Blair and Chuck have equally surrendered to – and Serena cannot help the way her lips pull into a smile at the realization that her childhood friends are more than simply happy. Mister and Mrs. Bass are deeply, powerfully connected in a way that no young lady is raised to expect to experience with her husband.

And yet some things have not changed in the five years she has been gone. Blair is still Blair. Taking a sip of her tea before carefully balancing the cup on her knee, before looking at her closest friend with a calculating and scheming grin.

"A select gathering has been summoned to attend to Anne Archibald tomorrow for morning tea," Blair informs the blonde before raising her cup in salutation. "You should come with me."

The invitation causes Serena's eyes to meet Blair's, causes the blonde to shake her head emphatically at the offer. The Dowager Countess nitpicks more than Serena's own mother, and Serena's flightiness is one of her favorite topic to discuss. It would not matter that Serena is now married, that she and her husband moved back to town in order to care for Dan's elderly father, or that Serena is now related to the Dowager through her marriage to Jenny's older brother. The thinly veiled references to poor matchmaking and fallen women will still be thrown her way.

"You know perfectly well she will pounce on me and lecture me. You're just trying to divert her attention."

"Of course," Blair replies over the rim of her cup with eyes shining in false innocence. "What are friends for, after all?"

Serena's hearty laughter attracts the attention of the men seated in the room. Nate jerks his head towards the door in a gesture for them to adjourn to Chuck's study, and the other man rises to his feet in agreement. Blair turns to view them inquiringly, and her husband places a soft kiss against her cheek in farewell.

"There are a number of matters I need to clarify with Nate so if you will excuse us, we'll retire to my study."

The men retreat from the room, and memories of them strolling off to partake in scotch and cigars and other unmentionables swiped from Bart Bass' study flash in Serena's mind. Yet Blair seems unconcerned as the door closes behind them, as her best friend raises a quizzical yet suggestive brow in her direction.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Blair replies with a shrug. "No matter. I'll drag the information out of him later."

She places her cup and saucer on the table before rising to her feet, outstretching her hand in an invitation for Serena to join her. The blonde accepts, allowing Blair to drag her through the beautifully decorated drawing room towards the open doors leading out to the terrace.

"Come," Blair bids. "I want to show you the other half of my life."

From the open doors, Serena can hear the shrill laughter of children playing outdoors on an unusually warm spring day. She strolls with her best friend through the doors to the railing of the veranda, linking her arm in Blair's and bumping her shoulder against Blair's in a gentle prodding.

"Henry is five, George is three, and Evelyn is one."

The satisfaction and deep happiness that rings in Blair's voice pulls Serena's attention to her best friend, but the brunette is looking ahead towards the scene in front of her. Love and pride glows in her face; the happiest Serena has seen her in a long time. She follows her gaze to where two children romp and play on the lush lawn in front of the lake as the ducks swim merrily past.

Two brown-haired young boys – the older one taller and ganglier than when she last saw him – hold wooden swords and are staging a fight under the watchful gaze of two nursemaids, one of which bounces a toddler on her hip. Blair steers her down the steps towards them, and Serena offers her a teasing smile.

"No wonder you could never visit me. You have been busy."

"No, Chuck's been busy," Blair corrects. "I've been occupied."

Serena closes her eyes and huffs at the suggestive undertone to Blair's comment, and the brunette laughs at her formerly scandalous friend's prudish ways. The toddler on the nursemaid's hip turns her head at the laughter, and she waves her arms excitedly when she spies her mother.

"Mama!"

The shouted demand to be held is assuaged when the pair strolls towards the little girl and Blair immediately lifts her daughter into her arms. The little girl wraps her arms about her mother's neck and snuggles her curly head into Blair's chest. Her wide eyes with their impossibly long and lush lashes remain fixed on Serena, however; openly inquiring as to who this woman standing beside her mother could be.

"Contrary to all appearances, this is the dangerous one," Blair informs Serena as she bounces the little girl in her arms and places a kiss against the crown of her head. "She's already has her father wrapped around her little finger, and her brothers are hers to command when they aren't busy fighting each other."

"Did you expect anything else? She looks exactly like you, Blair. I'm surprised she hasn't already hatched a scheme to earn her own necklace."

"Ow! You did that on purpose!"

The wail deflects their attention to the swordsmen progressing further down the lawn. George holds his knee as he rolls in the grass, and Henry stands over him with a scowl on his face.

"I didn't hit you there! That would be a foul blow," Henry protests, having studied and versed himself on the rules and regulations of proper swordsmanship. "It was your own sword. You stuck yourself!"

"Did not!"

The nursemaids hover unsure whether to intervene give that their charges have yet to come to blows. Blair, however, takes one look at her eldest son's face, at the hard and determined features he inherited from his father and immediately hands Evelyn off to Serena.

"Here, hold her. A deadly insult is going to be uttered at any minute, and then it will have to be avenged, shattering the idyllic imagine I have managed to present to you in my letters."

Left with no other option, Serena hefts Evelyn into her arms and watches Blair walk quickly down the lawn. Ever the fixer, the brunette calls upon the boys to take their corners until a just and suitable solution can be found. The jab of fingers into her eyes, though, forces Serena to focus on Evelyn.

Unlike how she behaved in her mother's arms, the little girl sits up in Serena's embrace and stares directly into her face. Little hands touch her cheek as Evelyn leans closer, peering into one eye and then the other. She points at them with pudgy fingers leaning closer still in obvious fascination.

"You have very pretty eyes, too, Miss Evelyn," Serena informs her. Everything about the little girl may be a copy of her mother, but her eyes are her father's eyes. A softer, more mesmeric shade and yet still as piercing as Chuck's. Evelyn blinks at her then lifts her gaze to Serena's hair, offering the woman holding her a huge and delighted smile.

She reaches towards the arrangement of frizzy gold and although Serena expects to feel a tug, the tiny hands touch gently, patting Serena's hair before lacing her fingers lightly through. Evelyn's face fills with wonder as she stiffens her pudgy fingers and draws strands free, marveling over the color.

Serena knows she should stop her; her hair is wayward enough as it is. Yet she can only watch as the little girl explores; curious and enthralled with the difference between her own hair and the blonde strands framing Serena's face.

"Thank you," Blair replies at her return. "War has been averted and peace restored."

She reaches for Evelyn, and Serena readily relinquishes the child. Yet Evelyn makes noises of protest until Blair allows her to place her little hands on Serena's face and plant a damp kiss on her cheek.

"Prt!" Evelyn announces as she turns back to gaze up at her mother. She curls her fingers around the heart-shaped pendant on the necklace hanging from Blair's neck and drops her head against Blair's shoulder once more.

"Of course, my daughter would find your beauty more fascinating than my own."

The malice of their youth is gone, replaced with the soft indulgent laughter of a woman finally secure in her own life. Serena reaches out to run her fingers through the little girl's brown curls, to admire the little girl's beauty just as Evelyn admired hers.

"She's very beautiful, Blair. Bring her to Anne Archibald's tea tomorrow and the Dowager Countess might very well decide that Evelyn is entitled to be the next Countess of Constance with all the jewels and estates and fashionable attire that comes with it."

Boots on the stone drags their attention towards the house, and the two women watch as Chuck and Nate stride across the terrace towards the staircase leading to the lawn. The boys spy their father, and they run past with swords waving and shouts of delight as they charge up to terrace and launch themselves into their father's arms.

Smiling, Blair glances back to check that the nursemaids are gathering the scattered toys. Then, with Evelyn in her arms and Serena at her side, she starts back up the gently sloping lawn to where her husband and sons await her presence. And yet halfway up the lawn, she reaches out to hold Serena's hand, to stop the blonde long enough to correct her.

"If there is one thing I would like my daughter to repeat from my own life, it is that she finds her great love because the only thing Evelyn is entitled to is happiness."


End file.
